


Red Lights Out

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, f1, formula 1 - Fandom, motorsports - Fandom
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe, F1 - Freeform, Friendship, M/M, Manipulation, Pre-Slash, Romance, Sherlock/Formula 1 AU, Slash, UST, john watson works on cars, perfect cooperation, sherlock bbc - Freeform, sherlock holmes is a race car driver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 102
Words: 327,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an overqualified mechanic and former rally driver who works for McLaren. Silverstone GP is impending when he meets Sherlock Holmes, a prodigy driver whom nobody takes seriously, except for McLaren boss Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea a while ago, and while I played with the notion that John would also drive, I find the dynamics between a mechanic and a driver much more interesting to explore. I'm stealing teams, names and facts from the 2014 season and make up some others - changes to the real thing are made on purpose.
> 
> This is my first AU, and it combines two of my greatest loves, F1 and Sherlock...and the plotbunny was already chewing up all my cables and wallpapers, I had to write it. I don't know how often I can update since I have my other baby, Two Sides of the Same Coin, to work on, but I am already in love with this story and I hope you get a kick out of it as well. (I'm using Sherlock Season 1 as the blueprint for this, but there will eventually be m/m happening)
> 
> If you need it, I can add a few term explanations at the end of each chapter, as I use some technical and F1 jargon terms. Drop me a note if you need a definition.

John wiped his hands on a paper towel and crumpled it up, unsuccessfully trying to hit the bin in the corner. With a sigh he took one last look at the chassis he had been working on and switched off the light. He loved working on the car with a feeling of deep exhilaration and profound nostalgia. He would never be able to see how fast he could take her around a track, adrenaline pumping through him while his hands steadily steered the car through the last corner. 

Taking the bus from the garage to his flat was always strange, because his body remembered the speed, remembered the bliss of going inches down into sand but sliding through it, coming out safely and still in the lead. His heart, though, his heart was glad that he didn’t have to steer. That it wasn’t in his hands. He pushed his forehead against the cool glass of the bus window, watching the city lights rush by. 

One week to the race and he needed to focus on that. Their cars were doing well and they performed as they should. The MP4-29 was unlike anything he had worked on before; it was sleek, fast and noisy. The motor had triggered some criticism, but it ran smoothly enough. Magnussen was a brilliant driver, and Button was comfortable with the car. Chances of winning weren’t all that bad, even though Mercedes AMG Petronas, Ferrari and Red Bull were all doing spectacularly well this season. But they had killed it at Melbourne, and John had felt excited again for the first time in a long time.

Since his freak accident in Afghanistan during the Central Asia Rally he had forcibly shut down the urge to drive races. Once he had found himself on the M1, going much faster than he should and getting really close to doing something incredibly stupid. Mike had to pick him up from the motorway services and John hadn’t driven faster than 40 mph since. 

The engine noise of his phone startled him out of his thoughts. For a moment he fought down the embarrassment at his ring tone, but nothing sounded as good as an old recording of Senna going past the finish line. “Hey Mike,” he said, sounding tried even to his own ears. 

“John, mate, how are you on this fine summer evening?”

“I’m fine.” He tried to pick up some of his friend’s cheerfulness. He wasn’t sure how Mike could always stay positive in any situation, but it was immensely reassuring to know he was just a phone call away whenever he got into a dark mood. “Been working on the car.”

“Put the motor in yet?”

“Might put her together tomorrow. She looks really good.”

“Can I come down? I might have a surprise for you.”

“If you help with the tyres, sure.”

He never trusted himself with tyres. He couldn’t be sure whether it had been a mistake or whether it had just been really bad luck, but he never wanted to put a tyre on a car again that would simply buck up and turn over for no discernible reason, causing a tyre to rip off and fly through his own window to crush him. He rubbed over his eyes. 

“Good, let’s say around ten. Have coffee and then take her for a spin?”

“Fine, yeah. See you tomorrow.”

***

The sun was warm once it peeked over the rooftops. John opened the garage door and looked at the car, feeling an irrational urge to just pet her a bit. He’d need a name eventually, but somehow he hadn’t yet found one that seemed right. Jenson had told him after Melbourne that he had spent a day smiling when he was allowed to choose his own number this season and had dubbed his car Two Little Ducks, as the twenty-two was his lucky number. 

But John didn’t have a lucky number and he definitely didn’t fancy naming his car after one of his ex-girlfriends. She was female, that was obvious, and he grinned as he ran his hand along her flank. Today he’d hear her motor running and possibly drive a few miles through the city. Or maybe he’d make Mike drive. 

Mike arrived four hours later with two styrofoam cups of coffee and a big grin. “You’ve been up early, huh?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” John wiped his face and opened her up. “Have a look.”

Mike handed John the two cups and leaned over to look at John’s work. He poked and prodded and then straightened again. “She looks good to go if you ask me.”

“Check the tyres, please?” John took a sip of coffee and stood back, giving Mike room to have a look. It took him longer than John knew it normally would, but he knew about John’s fear, so he made sure that everything was exactly how it should be. “Well done, John. You should definitely spend more time getting down to business in the pit lane. They sure could use your hands there.”

“Mike …” John licked his lips nervously. “I’d not be very helpful.”

“But you could do so much. You could develop the cars in ways none of the boys know how to. I know you’re brilliant at it.”

“If something happened, I could never forgive myself.” 

Mike nodded and gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s take her out.”

John handed over the keys without a word. “Where are we going?”

“We’ll fill her up and then you’ll drive her.”

John wanted really badly to just say yes, but he felt the palms of his hands sweat at the mere thought that he would enter a motorway. “You can take her anywhere you want. But you drive. I watch and see if she’s alright.”

Mike looked at him for a long moment before he picked up his coffee, drank the rest of the cup and got behind the wheel. John felt instantaneously jealous and he hated himself for it. 

They drove down to the nearest petrol station and then headed towards the north of the city. 

“Are you going where I think you are going?” John grinned at Mike’s profile. “You know we don’t have to be up before tomorrow.”

“I have a surprise, as I said.”

John enjoyed the ride to Silverstone immensely. Mike was a very careful driver, and he felt safe. Strangely enough he always felt safe when Mike drove, but he immediately got nervous when he sat down in a cab. He was utterly fucked up and had no urge whatsoever to talk about any of it with his therapist. He was relatively happy where he was, overseeing the mechanics at McLaren and doing some design work on the computer. He liked the new cars, because he saw their potential. He didn’t like to think about touching the cars and getting something wrong – and yet he knew it was all in his head. The irrational fear that someone could go through something like he had gone through. 

He had watched terrible accidents happen during races, but he had always felt detached somehow. Once he had gone over Jenson’s complete car and tweaked a few things before the second training and Jenson had put his car right into the crash barrier. Jenson had promised him that it had been entirely his own fault as he had underestimated the grip on the track, but John felt sick for the rest of the day. 

Mike parked the car and got out, leaving the keys in the ignition. “So, what’s the surprise?” John asked, climbing out of the car, feeling his shoulder protest. 

“The track is open today,” Mike said, watching John’s face with an expression that told John that he expected to be either hugged or punched. 

“Mike,” he said instead, his voice strained. “I can’t.”

“Come on. You fixed her. She can easily go one-fifty and you don’t want to see what she can do?”

John frowned hard as he shielded his eyes from the early summer sun. Then he exhaled, slowly. Nobody was here, just him and Mike, who knew him well enough to give him this chance of getting over his fears. “I’ll drive her down to the pit lane and then we’ll see.”

“Alright. Taking this step by step. Come on, get in.” Mike’s smile was somewhat smug when John turned around himself once, making sure nobody was around, and then sat down in the driver’s seat. 

He drove them to the gate, where Mike handed the porter a slip of paper and they were waved through. John took them over the bridge and down to the pits. It was eerie to see the track so deserted, to hear only the birds and not the noise of engines warming up and thousands of fans creating an ever present buzz of excitement in the air. John parked his car at the first box and got out. “I’ll walk around it,” he said excitedly. “Come on.”

The drivers walked the track routinely, but he never really bothered when everything needed to be done as quickly as possible and be as perfect as possible. But now, now he would be able to walk the track, and feel the tarmac beneath his soles. He took off towards the end of the pit lane when noise exploded from the last box. Shaken by the unexpected interruption of the perfect peace, John saw a sleek unpainted MP4-29 drive out of the shade of the box and onto the track, and a second later the car was gone from sight.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After long deliberation I have decided to change the rules the bit. Since F1 has been hit by one rule change after another and things have gone downhill concerning popularity and general appreciation in the last few years I will write the cars (despite using this season's terms for them) as they looked and sounded in the early 2000s. I also allow my drivers to use and develop new engines and they do not have to stick to the quite frankly stupid rule of having to drive at least two different kinds of tyres and they can refuel as often as they need. Training and Qualifying also adheres to rules before top ten rules, no pole position trophy etc...So basically, the FIA rules from a time when F1 was super awesome and surprises could happen during races and the talent of drivers was put before computers and remote analysis.  
> If you have no idea what I am talking about, do not worry :) the basic rules are: two drivers per team, plus one extra for emergencies; the best teams get most money, hence remain the best and have the chance to develop their cars further, though every now and again, a new team enters the competition and shakes things up again; it is possible for drivers to actively work on their cars to make them a perfect fit, they go around a circuit and each race is a little more than 305km/190 miles in distance. At the end of the season there are two winners, the driver with the most points (will have to think whether I want to keep the old count or the new, feedback concerning that issue is more than appreciated) is world champion and the team whose drivers accumulated the most points together also become world champs. There are about a bazillion rules to the sport, but I think most of them are self-explanatory if I write about them (fining for transgression of the speed limit in the pit lane, driving across the white stripe that leads out of the pit lane, hitting another car for no obvious reason etc).
> 
> Thank you SO much for reading and commenting. If you notice any inconsistencies or mistakes, please let me know!

John’s first instinct was to run after it. _Someone stole our car_ , his brain offered unhelpfully. That, however, was impossible. All of their cars were parked in the HQ garage in Woking, and only two would be brought up on Wednesday for test runs while the others wouldn’t arrive until Thursday for the training. 

Reaching the end of the lane, he looked into the empty box. All he could see were the discarded tyre warmers, and a full set of pit stop gear. Nothing unusual, had it been Wednesday or Thursday morning. But it was Monday and John was entirely confused that an unscheduled test run would not have been run by him and Lestrade first. 

He turned just in time to see the car shoot past him, making him cringe as he knew the motor was nowhere near as warm as it should be, being taken from zero to full speed on the tarmac. Whoever was driving didn’t know a lot about the mechanics of the car, but they definitely knew how to drive judging from his lap time. John jogged back down the lane where he found Mike already on the phone, probably to Lestrade. 

Despite his restricted view, John could hear the car being driven in a way that excited him more than the sound of a car had in a long time. He could hear just how close the driver got to the turns before slowing down, and he was amazed by how fast he took the car out of the Luffield Corner, taking the car full speed towards Turn 9 without ever slowing down on the way. He climbed up the stairs to the newly built wall that separated the pit lane from the track and leaned over it, waiting for the car to go around the circuit. He came out of Turn 18 faster than John had thought it was possible to force a car and he passed him full speed, but hit the brakes suddenly and stopped at the end of the Pits Straight. For a moment, everything was still, but then the car turned around and drove into the pit lane. John leaned against the wall, watching as the mystery driver parked it in the middle of the lane and peeled himself out of the car. 

John turned his head to see Mike still on the phone, but he slowly made his way over to them. Her did not seem to think that a stranger driving a car like that on a Monday was anything out of the ordinary, judging by the neutral expression on his face. Then John’s attention was drawn to the slim but relatively tall man who had stepped out of the car, taking off his HANS and pulling off his helmet in a relaxed motion. John could see dark curls peek out from under the fireproof balaclava, deciding immediately that whoever this person was, he didn’t like to follow the rules. When the man turned, he was met with piercing grey-blue eyes and an expression that reflected keen interest in him. John felt somewhat startled by the intensity of the look, but he wanted to know who the stranger was, so he stood his ground. He had interrupted the man’s training and while he could have chosen to just keep going he had come back. 

The stranger pulled off the balaclava and ruffled his hair with a gloved hand. Then he pulled off his right glove, revealing a long, finely shaped hand, and put the glove and his balaclava into his helmet. Then he extended a hand. “Hello,” he said, and John almost took a step back in surprise, because he had absolutely not expected a voice like that on a man who looked almost like one of the rookies who leaped about, excited to have entered the royal league. His voice was deep, if a bit rough, and soft where his eyes were crystal-clear and icy. 

Finally, he climbed down from the wall and took hold of the extended hand and shook it, being intensely aware of how small his hand looked in the large white hand he held. “John Watson.”

“Why are you at work on your day off?” The man still held his hand and John felt how strong he was. With another small squeeze, he took possession of his own hand again and stood a little straighter. “It’s a great day to be out, and it’s good to be here before the locusts invade.”

He saw the hint of a smile on the other man’s face who pulled off his other glove and placed the helmet on the ground next to the car. 

“Afghanistan or Dakar?”

John was momentarily unable to do anything but stare. “Excuse me?”

“You’re injury. Did you acquire it in Afghanistan or Dakar?”

“Oh, Afghanistan, how…?” 

Mike interrupted them, nodding at the man. “Hello.”

“You know each other?” John asked, still confused, but somewhat relieved that apparently he wasn’t talking to someone who wasn’t supposed to be here at all. 

“That's Sherlock Holmes. Prodigy driver and destroyer of all things that run smoothly and well in this world.”

Holmes, whose expression had been passive until then, smiled for a split second, but he seemed to force himself to bite it back down. John had caught it anyway. 

“How did you know I was injured in Afghanistan?”

Holmes turned back to him, focusing entirely on John’s face and John could feel himself go a bit pink. “The way you held yourself up on the wall. You favoured your right shoulder and put your weight on that side of your body, so you are used to not trusting your left shoulder as you only used your right to hold onto the wire of the fence. Your right leg also took some of the heat, though not as badly as your shoulder – you have a slight limp, which was less clear on the stairs than when you walk straight. It’s not terrible, but discernable, and mostly psychosomatic, because right now you carry yourself with both legs in equal measure. In the last two years, two men with the name Watson were injured during rally-racing. One in Afghanistan, clearly you, and the other at Dakar, clearly not you. I should have known. The accident traumatised you and your presence on the track days before the actual race speaks of self-therapeutic measures.” John looked around, but Mike had wandered off again.

“Jesus,” John scratched the side of his head, feeling slightly self-conscious under the scrutiny of those eyes. “But how did you know I work here?”

“Really?” The man looked at him with a smile that was clearly meant to make John feel like he had asked an incredibly stupid question. When John waited silently, he inhaled deeply and rushed through his words as if it was all very obvious to him. “This place is not where mere mortals are allowed to spend their mornings. You clearly have been here before and you feel entirely familiar and safe here, despite the recent major constructional changes to the track and the buildings. Strangely enough it seems as if the fact that nobody is here relaxes you more, as you consciously walked across the lots of the cars, as if you purposefully did it now, because they’ll be blocked with cars in four days. You were also visibly fighting the urge to not berate me for driving into the pit lane from the wrong end, so you are not only familiar with the track, but at home here and a little possessive.”

John just kept staring, wide eyed and strangely impressed.

“And then there are your hands.”

“My hands?”

“You haven’t driven in a while, as the calluses on your hands suggest that you work mostly on a computer. You have, however, recently worked on a car. There is oil under the fingernails of your left hand and,” he learned a bit closer and carefully took John's left hand in his and pulled it up to his face, inhaling deeply, “you smell of lubricant. Petrobras, interesting. In any case, you work on cars, with cars and for Formula 1.”

John took possession of his own hand again, exhaled through his teeth and shook his head. “That was …” Sherlock Holmes raised his chin as he wanted to defend himself verbally and John exhaled, “amazing; in a slightly uncanny kind of way.”

Holmes’s expression changed towards confused and slightly flattered. 

“Now if you only knew as much about cars as you know about people,” John grinned and stepped around Holmes, poking the left front tyre with his index finger, noting that the tyres would not last for another ten laps if he kept driving like he did. Then he picked up the discarded steering wheel and replaced it with a single smooth move. “You went two laps without allowing them to warm up. You should have taken a slow one to get to the right temperature, never mind allow the motor and the brakes to get used to your style.” He looked up at Holmes who looked back at him as if what he heard amused him. 

“You’re a mechanic, but you don’t handle cars apart from your own, do you?” Holmes calmly walked around to him, standing much closer than could be possibly justified. He studied John’s face and didn’t need an answer to read in his eyes what he wanted to know. “She can handle it,” he finally said. “Maybe not during a race, but I’m just trying to see what she can do under special circumstances.”

John shrugged. “I just mean that if Mike says you destroy things, you could try to possibly destroy things a bit more gently?” He refused to acknowledge the amusement on Holmes’s face. 

“Take her apart gently, huh? Not my style,” he turned abruptly, and John took a moment to push his mind back into gear. That man was disconcerting and fascinating at the same time and John felt inexplicably excited to have met him.

“Tell me, then, what do you think I should do differently.”

“Are you serious?”

“You’re a mechanic. A good one, too, and you have driving experience, though none in one of these. When was the last time you drove a formula car?”

“Five years, before I went into rallies.”

“And yet you know this car incredibly well.” 

“I helped construct it,” John said, feeling suddenly insufficient instead of proud of his work. 

Holmes held out his hand once again. “Sherlock. A pleasure to meet you.” John took his hand, smiling. “John. Likewise.”

“You drive really well,” John stated, remembering that it was obvious from the mere sound of the lone car on the track. “Daring.”

“Testing. I’m experimenting.”

“By making sure we won’t have enough tyres for the weekend?”

“I picked up enough grit. The track wasn’t cleaned these past few days. They were getting warm.”

John squinted at him, studying his young face. “You’re impatient.”

“I want to know things, preferably as quickly as possible so I can move on to the next test.”

“What about …” John caught himself. Talking about the rush wouldn’t do, not when he was scared of it. 

“Results,” was all Sherlock said before he turned and shielded his eyes from the sun. “Lestrade?”

John turned around and saw his boss walk towards them. 

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, and John was instantly worried by the tone of his voice. 

“Kevin just broke his leg. In three places.”

“Jesus,” John swallowed hard. “How?”

“Fell down some stairs last night, apparently. Nothing work related. Fell over his cat, for all I know.” John could tell by his entreating look at Sherlock that Kevin Magnussen wasn’t the only problem they had.

“Vandoorne?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head to one side as if to challenge Lestrade to tell him that everything was under control and that their replacement driver was good to go. “Called in just two hours ago. He’s got the flu. One of the animal ones. Aki said there is no way that he can drive this weekend.”

For the first time since Sherlock had climbed out of his car, he seemed unsure. “You want me to dive?”

“Please.”

“Not in that car!” Sherlock pulled his shoulders back and looked suddenly much taller. 

“We can adjust it.”

“I won’t have Anderson touch a car I will race in.”

John liked Anderson. He was a calm, thorough and genuinely good mechanic. He did the work John sometimes yearned to do, but never found the courage to.

“Sherlock. You’re the only one. I don’t want to start with only one car this weekend. I need you.”

“I’ll have John,” Sherlock said with a finality in his voice that made John nod immediately, fully convinced that what Sherlock proposed was perfectly logical. Only a few seconds later he realised what Sherlock had said. He looked at Lestrade, silently begging him to call Sherlock a crazy git and to get over himself. 

“Fine. Take John. The team won’t like it, but it’s a great chance for you to show what you can do.”

“Destroy cars,” Sherlock sounded bitter and somewhat petulant, which surprised John.

“You can come down to the Yard and fine-tune Kevin’s car tomorrow. Today I want you to do another few and see what they were doing wrong.”

“John and I will be there,” Sherlock simply said and turned to pick up his helmet. Within a minute he was back in the car and past them, going much faster than the allowed 60 mph in the pit lane for training sessions. 

John turned to Mike and Lestrade. He felt somewhat shaken by the events of the last few minutes. “Is he always like that?”

Mike grinned and nodded. “Jupp.”


	3. Chapter Three

“Do you want to wait until he’s done so you can use the track?” Mike broke into John’s thoughts as he found himself making his way towards the Loop to be able to see more of Sherlock’s driving. He felt his fingertips itch and yet he pretended that he didn’t know exactly what caused his excitement.

“I’m good, I think. I’ll watch him for a while. If I’m supposed to work with him, I need to know what he does to the car so I can minimise the damage.” Saying it felt good. It meant that he made a commitment to himself. The first step to letting go of his crippling fear.

“Right. Listen, John. Would you mind if I went back south. Seems like a bit of an emergency there and I am sure they’ll need me to sort out some paperwork for Kevin.”

“Oh, sure, yes, of course,” John nodded and turned away again to watch the approaching car. God, Sherlock was good – daring, unconventional, but brilliant, really. He would ask Lestrade why he hadn’t met him sooner. He absent-mindedly waved Mike good bye, noting in the back of his mind that he would have to drive home by himself now. For some strange reason it didn’t scare him as much as it should. Something had changed and while he wasn’t sure what had changed, he knew exactly who was responsible. 

He jogged down towards the Loop and when Sherlock drove past him again John felt the ground vibrate under his feet, making him smile. Sherlock was going full throttle, approaching the Loop with a speed that would make anyone hold their breath, and then he hit the brakes hard. John wasn’t sure whether he had overestimated the grip of his tyres on the cool tarmac or whether he knew exactly what he was doing, but his car broke out and he spun around twice before catching it, only to swerve around into the other direction once. He stopped in the middle of the lane and just sat there for a moment. Then he drove back towards John and turned off the engine.

John shook his head in disbelief and laughed when Sherlock took off the steering wheel and his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. He pushed off his helmet and John had to smile at the flushed face which greeted him with an excited grin. 

“You’re an idiot,” John called out to him. Sherlock’s grin disappeared immediately. 

“I’m an idiot?” He seemed properly confused and looked back down the track. John followed his eyes and realised that he had broken out on purpose. The track showed very clear skid marks in the shape of an ‘S’. John wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he just stood there with his mouth hanging open until Sherlock stood next to him. He had pulled off his balaclava and his curls were enjoying their new-found freedom. He tried to tame them with a gloved hand, but only succeeded in making things worse. 

“You didn’t mean my signature, did you?” Sherlock pressed his lips together, awaiting John’s reaction. John looked up at him and he had to turn away again immediately. The expression on his face made him look not only like someone who knew he had fallen out of line, but who knew he’d be forgiven. He also looked entirely too gorgeous. John blinked and pretended that he hadn’t just thought that. 

“We’ll have to push her back now,” he finally said, ignoring the urge to look at him again.

“Why?” 

“You’ve already started her twice without properly warming her up, judging by how patient you seem to be with these things,” he grinned and pointed at the general direction of the car and the track and the sky. 

Sherlock huffed. 

“The battery will be dead now. No chance of starting her again.”

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders and John looked at him again. “As for the signature … is that something you do with every track you test drive?”

Sherlock looked ridiculously proud of himself. “They’ll clean it, but it’ll still show from the helicopter cameras.”

John caught himself wondering whether Sherlock tended to mark everything he felt he had conquered as his own, but he decided to most definitely not think about any of these things now. He’d have enough time to sift through his unexpected excitement and interest in the strange man when he was home. “You’re a bit of a cock, aren’t you?”

Sherlock chuckled and undid the top of his overall, pushing it over his shoulders, letting it hang down from his hips. John knew the white fireproof long-sleeve would reveal an incredibly toned torso. He pointedly raised his eyes to Sherlock’s face when he looked at him again. “So you’ll drive on Sunday.”

Sherlock simply nodded.

“Can you do it?” John asked, wondering what Sherlock’s history was. “I mean, when Mike says that you destroy cars, and I am not trying to offend you here, but if you handle the car like you just handled her …”

“This,” Sherlock pointed at the car, “was a test drive. I know how to race. I know how not to break a car.”

“Have you ever driven a formula race?”

“Not yet.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock turned towards him, looking serious. “I know what I’m doing. I just need you to build me a car that can take me through, and I know you can do it.”

“How?”

“You’re unusually perceptive, and your hands …” he stopped as if unsure how to finish that sentence. John suddenly felt quite warm and he was sure that the early summer sun was only partly at fault. 

“I want to see you in a simulator,” John decided that they had been standing there for long enough. He needed to move, busy his hands and his mind. He felt a strange pull towards Sherlock – a feeling that he hadn’t had in years. It was an unexplainable certainty that they were already a team, and that they could do anything if they pulled on the same end of the string. 

“I’ve never used a simulator.”

“It might have saved many a car,” John grinned at Sherlock and Sherlock grinned back. “Come on, let’s get her back into the pit.”

Together they walked over to the car and pushed it back into the pit lane. Sherlock immediately went into the box and got a bottle of water which he emptied where he stood. John watched him drink and realised that he wouldn’t only just take care of the car, but that the driver might need as much maintenance. “How much do you drink, approximately, and how often?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he spoke a language that he didn’t understand. 

“You were incredibly thirsty just now, and you didn’t drink before you got into the car.”

“You didn’t see me before I started,” Sherlock argued. 

John sighed. There are two bottles of water in that box and until very recently, they were both full.”

“I could have thrown a bottle out,” Sherlock argued, sounding almost petulant. 

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“I just drank. Enough to keep my body going for the next few hours.”

John wiped his brow and nodded towards the other bottle. “May I?”

Sherlock threw him the bottle and John caught it. “Rule number one: You will drink at least five pints of non-caffeinated drinks during the day before the race starts on Sunday. And never more than a pint at once.”

“You’re supposed to be my mechanic,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“And yet you know that I am right.” John grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Alright. I’ll drink.”

John nodded, satisfied. He didn’t know a thing about Sherlock and yet he seemed to trust his judgement enough to allow him to mother him a bit. Either that, or Sherlock knew better and defied reason just because he could. He remembered the way his hair had stuck out and the ‘S’ on the track. “Okay, let’s put her inside.” Sherlock nodded and steered the car into the garage while John pushed. Then John checked the tyres again. They had blistered as hard as if Sherlock had driven an entire race with them. He looked up at him, noting that his long-sleeve was at least one size too small for him. 

“You’re an extraordinary driver.”

“I might need your help with the gear box.” 

They had spoken at the same time, and Sherlock was startled by John’s compliment, John could tell. He looked at his feet and then at John, and John felt his ears burn. The only way to shake the embarrassment he felt at the scrutiny of those piercing eyes was to talk business. 

“Don’t worry about the gear box. We’ll build you a car that can handle you.” He smiled and knelt down in front of the unmarked MP4-29. “We can adjust the engine, and I know how we can get a little more airflow to allow you to drive her harder and have more grip.”

He stood up again and only now noticed that something essential was missing. He had only wondered about the sparse equipment in the box, but now he noticed that there wasn’t a truck that had brought the car up to Silverstone. “How did you get here?” 

Sherlock pulled a towel out of a bag in the corner of the room and shrugged his shoulders. “My brother took me.”

“I didn’t see a truck.”

“He knows how not to be seen,” Sherlock grinned sardonically and John wondered what kind of person this brother was. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Sunrise,” Sherlock said and took the water bottle from John which he had picked up again. Then he peeled off his fireproof top and emptied the bottle over himself. John stared, stupefied. Sure, he’d been sweating, and sure, he’d want to get out of those clothes as soon as possible, but surely there were other ways of doing that than by stripping half naked in front of a stranger and doing _that_. 

John felt embarrassed by how much Sherlock’s behaviour irritated him. He’d done what he did just then a hundred times. Nothing felt better than to soak your hair in cool water when you’d been sweating inside a helmet for a while. And yet, watching Sherlock do it, showing off hiI s body so unselfconsciously while no one else was around, seemed incredibly intimate to John, especially since they had only shaken hands for the first time an hour ago. 

“Sorry, the showers are closed until Wednesday,” Sherlock mumbled into the towel which he used to scrub his face and hair. John used the few seconds in which Sherlock didn’t watch him to look at his bare torso. He was lean and toned in a way John had never been. When John worked out he put on muscle. He’d been properly fit when he had driven rallies but that seemed a long time ago. Sherlock looked strong, but also like he didn’t eat enough. 

“So how do we get the car back to Woking?” John knew that he’d have a lot to figure out once he was home, but right now he’d keep talking shop in the hopes that Sherlock Holmes would not get entirely naked in front of him and force him to ponder on why that thought alone affected him in entirely unexpected ways. 

“I’ll text him and he’ll have his people pick it up.”

“Okay,” John nodded and began tidying the box, slowly recognising a system in the order of things. Sherlock worked alone. Nobody had helped him get the car ready. For a moment John felt incredibly protective of the lone genius, and privileged that he had asked him, of all people, to work with him. 

“I’ve been telling you nothing new, have I?” He turned around to see that he had pulled on a dress shirt. He looked ridiculous wearing the shirt on top with the overall still hanging down from his hips. 

“You’re an expert.”

“And so are you. You don’t really need me.”

Sherlock frowned and then shook his head. “Well, I don't build cars and you do. And I need a second set of eyes, a second pair of hands. I need your patience.”

“How do you know I am patient?”

He smiled at John – a genuine warm smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “You came here to drive and found the track occupied. I’ve driven a car you helped design to bits. You’ve been told to do something you have been afraid of for months.”

“So?”

“You’re still here,” he said, sounding a little bit surprised, as if saying it only made him realise that it was true. John felt the same. He did not want to ask how he knew about his fear, but Sherlock had already shown him how perceptive he was. He would know not to say anything more than that. 

“Alright, let’s clean up and go down south,” John started placing tools into their according boxes, and when Sherlock didn’t move to help, he turned around and laughed. “Yeah, you get dressed and I take care of this.”

Sherlock immediately started pushing at his overall and John turned back around to give him some privacy. It only took him a few minutes to put everything together. Sherlock’s order was incredibly efficient, and yet very different from John’s. He knew by heart where the tools where, even though he never used them on cars apart from his own. His system was intuitive, Sherlock’s was mathematical. Interesting.

Sherlock stuffed his soaked overall into his bag and then texted his brother to come and pick up the car. After he had pocketed the phone, he bounced back and forth on his heels. John noticed how impeccable he looked. He wore dark trousers and shoes that looked as expensive as John’s entire wardrobe. “You must be quite wealthy,” John said, blushing at his own rudeness. Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders. 

“Let’s go. I want to be as far away as possible when my brother arrives.”


	4. Chapter Four

“Do you want to drive?” John stood behind his car, undecided on which side to get it.

“I won't,” Sherlock answered and got in on the left, taking the decision out of John's hands.

John exhaled loudly and straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t be alone. He would have Sherlock to tell him what to do if he panicked. For some reason he was sure that he was safe with him. He nodded to himself as if to confirm that he was also making the decision on his own after all and sat down in the driver's seat. 

His hands shook when he turned the key, so he sat back and exhaled slowly, listing to the sound of the car.

“She sounds beautiful,” Sherlock said, quietly. “How long did it take you to put her back together?”

“Couple of months,” John answered and pushed her into gear. “I wanted to take my time.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “That’s going to be interesting.”

“I’ll not let you stress me out,” John chuckled and slowly steered her down towards the entrance to the track. 

“You make it sound like a challenge,” Sherlock looked at John and John couldn’t help but grin at him. He waved at the porter and then sped up, enjoying the free road and the presence of Sherlock next to him. 

“You’ll definitely be dangerous on the straights.” He knew that the calm he felt was partly an illusion and partly self-control, which Sherlock played no little part in helping him to uphold. “If you push out of the corners like you did today, chances are you won’t make the first lap without falling off the rails and taking someone with you.” 

“Not if I get pole.” Sherlock sounded extremely confident.

John laughed and looked at him. He wasn’t joking. “You want me to build you a car that will take you from start to finish without you having to overtake anyone?”

“Too much to ask?” 

John stared at the road, feeling manic giggles bubbling up inside of him. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

Sherlock sighed and looked out of his window, his hands spread out on his thighs. He looked tense. He hadn’t looked tense since John had met him. 

“You’re serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“Okay,” John shook his head to clear it. “Say, you drive three seconds ahead of everyone. You’ll be overtaking the end of the pack after forty-five laps.”

“Blue flags,” Sherlock shrugged.

John was more than a little impressed by the self-confidence Sherlock brought to the table. He was also starting to wonder whether he had met a madman. 

“How can you be so confident?”

“Maths,” Sherlock simply said.

“If you pull this off,” John started, but then he didn’t know what he could possibly offer Sherlock that he didn’t already have. He knew nothing about what he wanted, either.

“If I win, you help me …”

John was sure there was more to that sentence, but Sherlock didn’t say anything else.

“Alright,” he agreed, having no idea what he was agreeing to, but helping Sherlock sounded about right. 

Sherlock looked surprised and John could see that the tips of his ears were pink. He smiled and looked back out on the road. 

They reached the M40 and John was surprised by how little traffic they were met with. He was going a solid 70 mph, keeping his mind occupied with Sherlock’s track-marking-antics. A companionable silence filled the car, and while Sherlock appeared to be deep in thought, John tried not to think about where he was and how fast he was going. He smoothly overtook a few cars, grinning when he pictured Sherlock, a completely unknown driver, blowing everyone away by clearing the field from the back while already leading the pack. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

Sherlock just nodded, knowing John had understood. 

“Pleasure,” he answered, once more unsure what he was referring to. Sherlock could probably get him to rob a bank with him and he’d still have his back one hundred percent. There was just something about Sherlock that made John trust him implicitly and without question. 

After fifteen minutes on the motorway, John felt himself relax properly. The car was driving smoothly, Sherlock was a calm and stable presence beside him, and the sun presented England’s rolling hills from their best side. “I could get used to this,” he said, knowing that nothing stood in the way of him actually doing it more often except for himself. 

“Here’s my number,” Sherlock handed him a card which he had produced from somewhere without John noticing. 

“Umm, thanks,” John looked at him, wondering why Shrlock chose such a formal way while wording it as if he was asking him out on a date. Warmth settled in his stomach.

Sherlock smirked at his confusion and looked out of his window again. “In case I am included in your equation of contentment, which I concluded from your recent exclamation.”

John felt himself go red. He hated that he reacted so immediately to Sherlock’s words, and yet he knew that Sherlock had assessed the situation correctly. Sherlock kept his face turned away from him, much to John’s relief. 

They kept going in silence while John carefully allowed his thoughts to go where he automatically refused to go. He imagined going faster, twice the speed he was going now. Hitting the brakes hard before swerving into a corner and out of it again, pushing hard to overtake the car in front of him. He let that scenario play out in his head a few times before he replaced the Formula 3 car with his rally car. Then he froze. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, his vision going white around the edges. He slowed the car down until they were only crawling. His throat was suddenly parched and he felt his heart beat fast against his ribs, making it hard for him to breathe, and he was about to simply stop the car right there and then when Sherlock's voice broke through his panic. 

“John. Wheatley Services come up in four miles. Keep going. It’s alright. You’re in control. The car is alright. You’re doing fine.” 

John exhaled shakily, coughing twice agains the tightnes in his throat and then forced himself to look ahead, and to not think about driving at all. Sherlock’s voice helped him to hang on and after a moment he accelerated again, making it to the motorway services without braking down. He parked the car and closed his eyes tightly. “Fuck,” he said again, fighting the urge to punch the steering wheel. Sherlock got out of the car and walked away, leaving John to utter a string of curses unheard by anyone else. 

After he had calmed down somewhat, he looked up and saw Sherlock return with a shopping bag in his hand, and he cleared his throat and stepped out of the car. Not trusting his legs, he leaned against the door. Sherlock wordlessly offered him a water bottle. 

He drank deeply, his eyes fixed to a small, white cloud above them. His breathing was returning to normal, but he could feel his heart hammer against his ribs. “I’m sorry,” he said at length. 

“It’s … fine.” Sherlock pulled a pre-packed sandwich out of the bag. “Eat something.”

John looked at him in surprise.

“You haven’t eaten all day, at least not since you came up to the circuit. I’m not the only one who has to be reminded, it seems.” He smiled at him with so much warmth that John couldn't help but to smile back. It was extraordinary how much Sherlock made him feel at ease, even though he had just witnessed him having a panic attack. And yet, he did not feel embarrassed by it. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Pleasure,” he answered, looking calm and as if nothing unusual had happened. John was extremely thankful for that. “Come on, let’s sit down.” 

John locked the car and they made their way to a picnic area. After they had found a place to sit he started pulling at the sandwich wrapping. Sherlock watched him calmly. “Do you want tea or coffee? I didn’t know what you liked, so I only got the basics.”

John looked up from his sandwich. “How did you know I like chicken?”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. “Shot in the dark,” he then said and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Good one, though,” John nodded, “it’s my favourite.”

Sherlock looked a tiny bit proud and then fished a second bottle of water from the shopping bag. He drank half of it and then swung his legs over the bench and sat with his back to the table, leaning his elbows on it. John was momentarily distracted by how tightly the shirt stretched across his chest. The fact that the buttons didn’t pop off spoke for the quality of the shirt. John wondered if Sherlock was a voluntary outcast from an obscure aristocratic family. 

“What triggered it?” Sherlock finally asked. John was a bit surprised that he had waited that long to ask the question. 

“I imagined myself back in the car.”

“Context.” Sherlock simply stated, clearly wanting more information.

“The rally. That’s it. Nothing else. I wasn’t even driving. Just thinking of sitting in the car …”

Sherlock nodded. “Do you think you can do the rest?”

John wasn’t sure. He would have loved to just hand over the keys, but he was certain that when Sherlock had refused to drive, he had meant it. 

“Do I have a choice?”

“Cab, walk, hitchhike,” Sherlock shrugged, clearly trying to hide a smile, and John nodded. 

“If you distract me, I think I can.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the left and narrowed his eyes as if he was thinking of ways to distract John, and John found, to his infinite embarrassment, that it already worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue flags are shown to the slower drivers who are being overtaken by the leading drivers during a race. They signal them to make way for the faster cars so they can continue the race without being stuck in traffic.


	5. Chapter Five

John hesitated before he unlocked the car. He told himself that everything had been going really well and that the car was perfectly fine. The danger was in his head, and if he could keep out of his head, things would be okay. It was about another hour to Woking and he told himself that he could do it. 

He looked at Sherlock when he started the car. Sherlock looked relaxed and calm and everything John needed to be. “Okay,” he said to himself and began moving the car. 

“Have you ever jumped out of a plane,” Sherlock asked when he entered the motorway again. John shook his head, wondering what Sherlock was on about.

“I think you should.”

“Fuck, no,” John shook his head and switched lanes, going a bit faster than the cars on the left lane. 

“Why not?”

“What if the parachute doesn’t open?”

“More accidents happen in motorsports than in skydiving.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“See my point?”

“No.”

“You’re scared of it.”

John was sure that Sherlock purposefully did not specify whether he referred to driving or parachuting. “Doesn’t mean I have to jump out of a plane.”

“It’s a control issue,” Sherlock offered, and John felt his patience waver for the first time. 

“And you’re obviously so ready to give up control that you don’t trust the best mechanic of the team to work on your car.”

Sherlock sighed and turned his face away. “He’s not the best.”

John was truly surprised by the back-handed compliment and his anger dissolved immediately, leaving him confused. 

Since he did not know how to respond, he just shut up and they spent the next half hour in silence. But the silence was now slightly uncomfortable and kept John on edge, just enough to keep thinking about Sherlock’s words again and again. Only when he entered the M25, he decided that he couldn’t just ignore Sherlock’s compliment. 

“I’m not the best, but thank you for saying that.”

Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath and turned around to look at him. “Anderson is an idiot. He doesn’t understand what I want, or anyone else on the team, for that matter. He builds the cars like he wants them to be and while they pass all the tests it doesn’t mean that they are the best. You’ve seen the cars this season. They were good but not perfect. He doesn’t understand what he is doing. You understand.”

“But you’ve only known me for half a day.”

“Enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

John shrugged, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “If you say so.”

***

The McLaren Technology Centre was buzzing with activity. John parked the car and watched people walk to and fro on the parking lot. The trucks were already being checked and preparations were made for the weekend. 

If he hadn’t met Sherlock, John would now be slowly driving down the circuit with Mike, or sit next to the track, unable to get back into the driver’s seat. How he had managed to drive all the way down here was a mystery. He reached out a hand and squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you.”

Sherlock startled and gave him a tight lipped smile, and John noticed that he was nervous. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock cleared his throat and climbed out of the car. Together they made their way into the large building which John loved. It was fancy and over the top and a beautiful place to work in at night when all was calm and he had the labs for himself. 

Sherlock walked behind him. He only noticed it when they entered the building and he headed straight for the labs. Something about his behaviour worried John and once they entered the technicians’ quarters he knew why. People greeted John with a friendly nod, a smile or a wave, but as soon as they saw Sherlock, their smiles vanished. 

John decided to test his observation and stopped, waiting until Sherlock stood next to him. Then he placed his hand on his back and pushed gently. Sherlock moved reluctantly and the next few people they encountered greeted them with confused faces. Only when they had stepped into John’s office and he had closed the door, Sherlock relaxed visibly. 

“Okay, what was that?” John asked, not understanding at all what had just happened. It seemed as if everyone knew and, worryingly, disliked Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked around and sat down on the small sofa John occasionally napped on. “Nice office,” he said, avoiding John’s eyes. 

“Not going to happen,” John pulled up a chair and sat down opposite of Sherlock, close enough to block him from getting up. “Why did they react like that?”

Sherlock looked bashful and clearly did not want to talk about the fact that not a single person out there had had a smile or friendly word for him. “Tell me,” John urged. 

“I’m not good with people.” Sherlock scrunched up his face like a petulant teenager would. “I work alone. Well, usually. Lestrade lets me test drive, but they don’t approve. I cost money and my methods are unconventional. They have no idea that they profit from my results.”

“Why do they not know?”

“Why should they?” Sherlock looked at him, challenging John to say something wrong. John said nothing. “Why do you think you haven’t met me before?”

“Because you sneakily test drive where nobody sees you.” 

Sherlock visibly bit back a bitter remark he had been close to spitting out and looked slightly taken aback by John’s calm answer. 

“I don’t know what you did to make them react like that, but if I build you a car, you are on my team.”

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock was clearly not used to not understanding something.

“It means that you walk next to me and not behind me like you’re trying to hide.” John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment before he relaxed and pushed back his chair. He got up and walked over to the simulator which stood at the far end of his office. John had asked to get one when McLaren had built the new HQ, and for some reason he had been granted his wish. The drivers used it all the time, but he had never tried it. 

Switching on the computer, he marvelled at the extreme change he had witnessed in Sherlock. It distressed him that the man who had single-handedly managed to get him to face his worst fears was afraid of his colleagues and so obviously despised by them. Something was profoundly wrong with this picture. “Come on,” he said, turning back to the man on the couch. “Get in.”

Sherlock looked at him with a strangely blank expression. Just when he opened his mouth to say something, there was a short knock and the door opened. Greg Lestrade stuck his head in. “Ah, there you are. Everyone and their mother are wagging their tongues about you being here, Sherlock. I’ll try to calm them down. I though you wouldn’t come down until tomorrow.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John had to smile. “Everyone is going to be so pleased to see me on the weekend,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“They’ll be blown away,” John said earnestly before Lestrade could say something to make it worse. Sherlock looked at him as if he was unsure whether John was joking, but John pointed at the simulator. “Come on, we don’t have all day. Get in and show me what you can do.”

“Can I watch?” Lestrade seemed excited about the notion and he didn’t let Sherlock’s unhappy expression irritate him. “I’ve seen you do fantastic things in cars. Now I want to see you do fantastic things in cars that don’t cost a couple of hundreds of thousands of pounds when you find their weaknesses.”

“Fine,” Sherlock threw his hands in the air and sat down in the mock car without bothering with the usual preparations and gear, and John was incredibly glad that he seemed to be himself again. 

John entered the track – an imaginary one he had developed to test unknown territory – into the computer, added rainy conditions and wind, and filled Sherlock’s car up to make it heavy. Lestrade leaned against the wall and smiled, watching John being content in his element. Sherlock followed John’s programming with interest, but he didn’t say a word when John started the countdown and stepped back.

Sherlock watched the red lights on the screen go on in succession, and, with a short inhale of breath, he pushed down on the accelerator in the exact moment the lights went out. He shot down the track, saw the first turn and steered into it slightly too steep. He skidded across the tarmac but caught the car and miraculously came out fine on the other end. 

John held his breath. The next turn brought heavy rain and winds from the left and Sherlock fought to keep on track. He still went full throttle, squinting as if he tried to get a better view through his wet visor. John could feel his fingers twitch when he flew into the next corner, which Sherlock could never have known to be softer than the last. Only his lucky guess saved him from losing the car and he pushed forward again. He had been lucky with the first two, but the third corner was too narrow. He wasgoing too fast and flew off the track and into darkness. 

Lestrade coughed, and Sherlock turned around as if that cough had signalled him something. “Don’t try to impress him,” Lestrade said, nodding at John. “You don’t have anything to prove to him. He knows you’re a genius.”

John felt oddly touched by his boss’s words and by how Sherlock’s face flushed. “Let me go again,” he demanded. 

John restarted the test and Sherlock’s start went just as well as the first time. He knew the first two turns now, and John could tell that he calculated the angle and speed much better than before. He took them beautifully and made it through the third turn as well and then went back to the rogue driving of the initial test. He made it into the sixth turn before he crashed the car. 

“How are you still alive?” John asked, and Lestrade snorted behind them. 

“I don’t drive like this, usually,” Sherlock said and ruffled his hair in annoyance. 

“You know that you could just go around slowly once and when you know the grid you can go down much faster the second time.”

“It’s more fun that way,” Sherlock grinned and gave John the same look he had received after he had killed his car on the circuit this morning. 

“Idiot,” John grinned. “Okay, third try.”

Just when he had started the countdown, another knock interrupted them. Sally Donovan, the team’s PR manager, stuck her head in. She looked at Lestrade and John first, but then her eyes settled on Sherlock and her expression grew thunderous. “What’s the freak doing here? I heard he was down here but you’re letting him ruin your indoor equipment, now, too?”

Lestrade cleared his throat and motioned John to go on with things. “Sally, a word.” He closed the door behind them.

“What the hell is wrong with people?” John felt entirely too angry on Sherlock’s behalf. He stopped the computer again.

“It’s fine, John. Don’t worry about them. Sally and I have never gotten along.”

“It’s not fine!” John had gotten loud and he realised it only when Sherlock looked at him with a slightly shocked expression. He felt himself shaking. Why was he shaking?

“Let me go again, please.” Sherlock turned back to the screen, but John could see that the incident had left traces on his face. There were lines on his forehead that had not been there before. He looked older now, too, like he had much more experience in confrontations just like this one than he would let on. 

“Sorry,” John said. “I just … don’t understand.”

“It’s fine. They are idiots.” 

“God,” John positively punched his keyboard and the red lights went on once more.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God, I am so exhausted I almost forgot that it's Tuesday. Woah. Here is the new chapter. A huge big fat thank you to those who commented on previous chapters <3 sorry it's a short chapter, but I'd rather post shorter chapters and on time than have to wait with the posting cause I didn't have time to write enough. I hope that this works for you. xx

Sherlock took John’s advice to heart and took on the track slowly this time. He whistled through his teeth at one chicane and John knew he would dance through it on his second round. Once he’d passed the finish line, Sherlock looked at John. “Did you build this?”

John nodded, feeling rather proud of himself. 

Sherlock wiggled in his seat as if to get comfortable, ran his left hand through his curls once and then sped up. John watched in awe as he took the track apart. Neither the rain nor the wind distracted him. He calculated exactly how fast he could go, how to get out of a corner quickly and how to go almost straight through John’s chicane. Once he hit the finish line he kept going and did the second lap just as well as the first. The lap times made John sweat and when he watched Sherlock go another round he suddenly wished he could race him; see if he could keep up with the madman who handled the machine with such ease as if he had been born doing it. 

Sherlock finished ten laps and then stopped the car. He grinned when he looked at John, his cheeks flushed. “Now you go.”

“No,” John shook his head. “No way. Good God, you’re good.”

“Why not. Nothing can happen to you.”

“Apart from me taking twice as long for a lap.”

Sherlock laughed, and John felt his heart leap. “That was very impressive.”

“Thank you. Are you sure that you don’t want to try?” Sherlock climbed out of the training car and pointed at the now empty seat. 

“I can’t,” John said, hoping that Sherlock would understand. “I also need to analyse the results of that performance. I mean, that was fantastic.”

“John,” Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “Are you aware that you keep saying that?“

“I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.” John felt heat rise to his face.

“No, it’s,” Sherlock frowned and looked away, “fine.” 

“Okay,” John stretched his back. “I need some tea. Do you want anything?”

Sherlock hesitated for a few seconds before he looked John straight in the eye. “I’ve got everything I need, thank you.” His hand pointed towards a discarded water bottle on the desk, but John was sure that it wasn’t the bottle he was referring to. 

“Okay, I’ll be right back. Don’t destroy anything,” he said with a grin and a wink before he closed the door behind him. Then he leaned back against it, inhaling deeply, wondering what the hell was happening to him. 

The energy between Sherlock and him was palpable, it was almost visible and they acted as if they had known each other for years. John felt completely at ease with him, and yet there was something else; something that went beyond sudden and unexpected friendship. He felt fiercely protective of him; probably to an extend that made it impossible to be objective about anything involving Sherlock. He knew that he was on his side no matter what. He even began thinking badly of his colleagues because they didn’t like Sherlock. Colleagues he had worked with for several years and always thought of highly. He desperately needed to get a grip. This was work, and he had just agreed to build a car for someone who killed tyres in five laps that were built to last forty. 

John rubbed his face and then made his way into the cafeteria to get some tea. Even though Sherlock had claimed that he didn’t want anything, he grabbed one for him, too. When he turned around to carry it back, he found Sally standing behind him.

“Hello John,” she said with a smirk, “how is work?”

“Fine, thanks. I should get back …”

“Why is Sherlock Holmes in your office?”

John hadn’t been briefed by Lestrade, so he didn’t know how much she knew, but considering that Lestrade had talked to her outside his office, he guessed she would know that Sherlock was on board for this weekend.

“He’s test driving.”

“A word of warning,” Sally said, having lost any trace of her smirk. “Don’t think you’re his friend. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. He takes what he can get, all for the rush, and then he burns it out. I’ve seen him do it, Lestrade has seen him do it, I don’t know why he lets him even close to our cars. He doesn’t care how much work you invest, he will destroy what you build for him and you’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

“Thanks,” John said, wondering if Sherlock had done something that affected her personally. She sounded more like a scorned lover than a concerned member of a racing team. 

“I'm serious, John, stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

John walked back, being more than ready to tell Sherlock about his encounter, but when he entered his office he found it deserted.

“Sherlock?” 

He saw a scrap of paper on his desk and noticed that the water bottle was gone. John picked the paper up and sighed. “Had to go. Pick me up tomorrow at 7 at 221B Baker Street.”

John remembered Sally’s words and felt something heavy settle in his stomach. He had not expected to feel so disappointed, but there he was, after spending a day with a genius driver, thinking they were made for each other, feeling a tiny bit heartbroken. 

With a sigh he sat down and switched on his computer to analyse the data the simulator had recorded. He typed in his password and opened the file with the lap times. He cursed loudly when he saw that Sherlock had managed to take the last five laps all in the exact same time – a time which broke Jenson’s record by three whole seconds and one which he had established on a dry track with only half the amount of fuel. 

For the next four hours he ran data through different programmes and slowly a digital image of Sherlock’s talent took on shape. John was honestly shocked by how he had managed to break down every detail of the track, including every single external influence on his car to drive the artificial track perfectly. He badly wanted Sherlock back so he could create new tracks for him and see him drive. He started to understand why Lestrade let him test drive cars. Watching Sherlock Holmes drive was inspirational. 

Mike had brought him supper at some point, but he had barely paid attention as he read through sheets and sheets of data, slowly pinpointing which parts of the car he would have to pay attention to tomorrow. Adjustments were definitely needed, but he had a feeling that Sherlock had been right. The cars had been doing well in general, but they had not been perfect. Not the kind of cars they had the potential to be. When he left his office, he felt excited about the next day and he was incredibly thankful for it, because he hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. 

When he drove home, he enjoyed the feel of the car. He enjoyed the little movements which had been as natural as breathing until he had started questioning them. Now he was more self assured. He owed a great deal to Sherlock. For the first time in ages he felt properly alive.

Once home, John fell into bed. He had taken a quick shower, thinking mostly about how embarrassing his breakdown could have potentially been, and how dangerous, if Sherlock hadn’t interfered. Somehow Sherlock had managed to get him back out of his head, though John didn’t know whether it had been his voice, his choice of words, or everything else that came with Sherlock Holmes. 

Now he lay in the dark, wanting to think, to analyse what had happened, but he felt tired to the bones and eventually fell asleep, feeling the vibrations of Sherlock‘s car under the soles of his feet.


	7. Chapter Seven

The alarm was physically painful. Why John had simply decided to agree to Sherlock’s suggestion to be back at Woking so early was beyond him, but he had remembered to put his alarm on 5:45. He dragged himself into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then he opened his laptop, and, squinting at the grey light, typed Sherlock’s name into his browser’s search bar. He found very little about him apart from a website which seemed to be Sherlock’s personal collection of obscure car-facts. He had never seen anyone write extensively about the importance of the length of exhaust pipes, of the different kinds of oils and lubricants and the consistency of car paint on a personal blog that wasn’t linked to another website or company. The amount of potentially useless information seemed almost ironic in connection to Sherlock, the lone genius.

John drank his coffee and then spent a good amount of time looking at the only picture he had found of Sherlock. It must have been a couple of years old. He looked quite young, in his early twenties, his hair shorter than it was now. His expression told John that he was decidedly not pleased about being photographed. 

When he tried to find which website held the photo, he hit a dead end. Once he had finished his coffee and put down the mug, he realised that he wanted a picture of Sherlock. He knew how silly this urge was, but the idea of being able to look at him while he worked seemed like a life-straw, almost. Even knowing him or such a short time and getting along with him so well despite knowing that nobody else seemed to like or trust him, with the exception of his boss, while he found him endlessly fascinating made him feel quite special. He had never felt special. 

He would have to talk about this with his therapist. It couldn’t be normal to be so attracted to someone on so many levels. He seemed like a saviour, someone to pull him out of his misery, and it had worked immediately. John wondered what the day would bring, and whether his initial excitement would wear off. Maybe he had just been incredibly excited to meet someone who seemed to know and understand him better than most people he spent his days with. The idea that he didn’t have to hide his fear or be embarrassed by it felt liberating. For a moment he stared out of the window, wondering whether Sherlock’s little spontaneous pit-shower was the result of a similar feeling. But then, why would someone like Sherlock Holmes, who did what he did without asking questions and without taking responsibility for the consequences of his actions, feel liberated around him. He just didn’t seem the type, and yet – the moment his office door had closed behind him, he had visibly relaxed, and that was something which seemed incredibly important to John. 

Half an hour later he parked the car in Baker Street and rang Sherlock‘s phone. He didn’t pick up. So John called again, with the same result. He got out and walked across the street to number 221 and found Sherlock's name next to Flat B on the bell board. He pressed down on the bell. Silence. He rang again, and there was still no answer. After the third time, the front door opened and an elderly, tired looking woman peeked out. “He’s not here,” she said, sounding apologetic. 

“Oh,” was John’s answer. Everyone involved seemed too tired for this sort of situation. “I was supposed to pick him up.”

“You’re John Watson?” she asked and John nodded. 

“He said you might come by. But he’s already left quite a while ago. I think he never slept. He’s got a big race coming up, doesn’t he? Finally something exciting.”

John couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sorry, are you his mother?”

The lady laughed and shook her head as if she hadn’t heard anything that amusing in a long time. “Oh no, dear God. I’m just the landlady. He moved in a few weeks ago, but I’ve known him for a while.”

“Oh, alright,” John nodded. “Good. Erm, you said he’s gone to work. Do you mean he drove out to Woking?”

“That might have been it. He told me, but I was half asleep.”

“Well, thank you for passing on the message,” John was already walking away from the door. “Have a good day.” 

“You, too, John Watson!” She seemed quite happy considering that John had probably rung her out of bed. With a sigh he tried calling Sherlock again but to no avail. He texted the number, saying that he was on his way. 

Driving alone in daylight felt strange. John had actually looked forward to driving Sherlock to work. Hell, he had looked forward to driving him home last night, but then he had disappeared and John had never had the chance to find out whether he would have invited him up for tea. He wasn’t sure why that idea seemed so appealing, but he wanted to see how Sherlock lived. He wanted to get to know him, away from cars and tracks and all that. He wished that he hadn’t just disappeared last night.

John tried to remind himself that Sherlock and rules didn’t go together well, but he had not expected him to be a person to bail on arrangements he had initiated. They’d have to talk about that. 

He tried to think of things to say to make Sherlock commit to the partnership. He wouldn’t ask for much, but eating and drinking would be part of it, and so would be punctuality and keeping arrangements. 

John made his way out of the city. Traffic was light at this time of day and he felt relaxed, if not a bit anxious, but he chalked that up to Sherlock’s no-show. Why hadn’t he slept? He had been exhausted on top of not eating all day, John couldn’t imagine how he could physically work as hard as he had yesterday if he didn’t take care of his body. 

His absence also made John rethink his infatuation with him. If Sally was right - and Sherlock was currently proving at least a part of her claim right - he should stop idolising a man who was apparently a really good driver and a very difficult human being. A very handsome one as well, John admitted to himself, grinning at the memory of Sherlock stripping half naked in front of him and then pouring water over himself. 

God, he had never shown a reaction to something like that in any other situation. He had never had to look a man in the face because he was scared of his eyes wandering south and becoming distracted by what he would see. And it wasn’t just that Sherlock was exceptionally handsome in an unconventional way. He had seen the most gorgeous bodies throughout his career, and he had been jealous of many of his colleagues’ bodies, but Sherlock was different. And the fact that his face was almost as distracting as his body worried John, too. The biggest problem of all, though, was Sherlock’s perception, because he was bound to notice how John looked at him, and he would possibly misunderstand and try to distance himself from John. And yet, he hadn’t said a word about his behaviour. 

Sherlock seemed to have an uncanny gift to notice even the smallest details. He paid attention when nobody else did. He caught on where everyone else seemed lost. And yet he had been extraordinarily nice to John. He had never met a man with whom he felt that he could just be himself, no matter how broken he was. It was therapeutic. Sherlock had a gift, and no matter how much John was bothered by the fact that Sherlock had bailed on him twice, he could not forget that he had caught him when he fell, metaphorically speaking. 

John exhaled and concentrated on the road. He’d probably see him at the HQ, and he could just tell him that there needed to be rules. He had gathered a lot of important information from last night’s results, but he wanted Sherlock with him every step of the way. He did not want to put Sherlock into a car without him having seen every bolt and screw fixed and fitted. 

When he reached Woking he grinned happily at the fact that he had driven to work on his own. He had asked neither Lestrade nor Mike nor anyone else if he could come with them to work. He had not gotten on a train or a bus to avoid driving. He had done it all on his own and he felt pretty damn proud. 

John unlocked his office just before eight. Sherlock was probably down in the garage, so he could prepare a little speech before facing him. But John didn’t get to rehearse. Sherlock had managed to bend and fold his long limbs and body into the tiny space of the couch in John’s office and he slept peacefully. Sheets of paper with last night’s data and the blue prints of Kevin’s car were scattered around him, and there was an empty bottle of vitamin water next to the couch. John stood transfixed, watching the sleeping man for a moment. 

All thoughts of chastising had left his mind. All he saw was a young man who had been so anxious to do it right that he had skipped sleep and come back to analyse his own results. John carefully pulled out his phone and took a picture, hoping that Sherlock would forgive him if he ever found out. Then he tiptoed out of the room, closed the door gently, and got two cups of tea. This time he made sure to be really noisy when he entered the office, and Sherlock jumped up the moment he was through the door. While he was impeccably dressed, it was undeniable that he had slept on that couch, as there was a telling imprint of the sofa cushion of his cheek and his hair was messy, but his eyes were clear and focused, taking John in before he rubbed his face. “Must have nodded off for a moment,” he said, sounding slightly annoyed. 

“Drink,” John said and held out the paper cup. Sherlock took it and then began walking back and forth in John’s office. The lack of any sort of greeting should have been awkward, but John felt a strange relief, as if last night hadn’t really ended yet. 

“Why did you disappear?” John finally asked, hoping it didn’t sound like an accusation. For a moment he saw something like panic on Sherlock’s face, but he had himself under control incredibly quickly. 

“I was needed elsewhere.”

“Fair enough,” John said and switched on his computer. “But I would really appreciate it if you could let me know when you can’t make it. I realise you didn’t have my number, but it would be nice to actually find you at home when I come to pick you up.”

He faced his screen, but noticed that Sherlock had stopped pacing. He could see a milky reflection of Sherlock behind his shoulder. He looked conflicted. Good. 

“What did you find out?” 

“Hmm? Oh, the data. I can win.”

John turned around and looked at Sherlock. “Alright then. We’ll get Jenson to test with you today, so we can see how compatible you two are.”

“But …”

“You’re on the same team. I will help you build a car, but I will also make sure that Jenson knows how you drive.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and sipped on his tea. John grinned and turned around again to text Sherlock’s unsuspecting team mate. 

A few minutes later, Jenson arrived. He looked slightly confused when he saw Sherlock, but at least Lestrade had told him about Sherlock. He hugged John tightly and John jokingly punched his arm and congratulated him on shaving. It had been a long going inside joke, and John never got tired of pointing it out when his friend had shaved. Jenson laughed and punched him back. “Alright, mate?” Sherlock looked extremely uncomfortable for a moment, almost shocked at the intimate greeting of the two. 

“I want you to meet Sherlock Holmes,” John nodded at Sherlock, who pulled his shoulders back. “He’s on the team for now, driving for Kevin.”

John could see how the two men took measure of each other, trying to figure out whether they’d be a team or enemies on the track. 

“I’d like you two to test drive the circuit,” John said. “Jenson, you go first as you have more experience with the track.”

Sherlock huffed and John gave him a warning look. 

“You’re working on his car?” Jenson asked, looking surprised when he saw the blueprints on John’s desk. “As in, actually working on the car?”

“Couldn’t say to no to this man,” John pointed at Sherlock, who looked surprised by John’s compliment. 

“Congratulations, John. It’s good to know that you’re getting your hands dirty again. About bloody time, if you ask me.”

John grinned. “Thanks. Come on, get in. Sherlock, you watch and learn.”

Sherlock made a face at the suggestion that he was sure that he couldn’t possibly learn anything from the other driver, but he did step close and watched as Jenson drove a few laps. He loved the track and it was a joy to see him take on the road. John knew that the simulator didn’t really reflect how drivers behaved on the track, but at least they got to memorise the turns and crooks. After ten laps, John made them switch places and what he saw made him curse under his breath. Sherlock imitated Jenson’s style, taking on the corners in the same way that the other driver had; braking and accelerating identically and ending up with the exact same lap time. 

Jenson looked at Sherlock as if he was afraid he would reveal any second now that he was really a machine. Instead, Sherlock sniffed and shrugged. “You could do better if you weren’t scared of Luffield Corner.”

“I’m not scared. I have respect,” Jenson said, shaking his head lightly. “How did you do that?”

“What?”

“Get the same lap time as I did.”

“Maths,” Sherlock answered. “It’ll obviously be more complex to duplicate a result in a real car, as the circumstances differ slightly, but your style is clean enough to copy.”

“Alright,” Jenson looked at John, and John could see the question in his eyes.

“He’s not a spy,” John laughed. “It’s just how he is.”

“Okay then. I’ll go and have a look at my car with Anderson. Maybe we can talk about the gear box after lunch. I’d like you to have a look at it, if you can spare the time.”

John could see Sherlock inhaling deeply, doubtlessly to claim absolute ownership over John and his work, so John spared him the trouble. “I’m pretty tied up here. I have to rebuild Kevin’s car entirely to fit his style. I’m sure Anderson will come up with a solution. But of course I’ll be here if you need me.”

Jenson looked at Sherlock again, who seemed appalled by the notion that John would offer his help to someone else. “Are you going to do the same thing on Sunday?”

“It depends on the circumstances,” Sherlock answered. “I have been told we are on the same team, so I won’t do any harm to you or the car on the track.”

Jenson frowned hard, clearly not knowing how to take Sherlock's words, but John patted his shoulder. “I’ll make sure he won’t do anything stupid. And when he says on the track he also means off it.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock who simply shrugged and looked away.

“Right. I’ll be in the garage then.”

“See you later.”

“Nice meeting you, Sherlock.”

“Good bye,” Sherlock said and closed the door behind him. “That was tedious.”

“Sherlock!”

“How can you expect someone like him to win a race when he can’t even understand the physics of his own driving.”

“He’s a world champion and an incredibly good driver. One of the best, in fact. Not everyone is a genius who can do all the maths in their head or who writes extensively about exhaust pipes on their personal website.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “You looked me up on the internet?”

John grinned. “Found a lovely photo of you.”

“Oh god.” Sherlock looked properly mortified. “No matter what I do, it always comes back to haunt me.”

“How old are you?” He hoped Sherlock would take his question as professional interest, not personal.

Sherlock’s silence very loudly spoke for itself. 

“Fine. In my head you’re twenty-nine. Judging from your experience you are older than that, but then again …”

Sherlock turned around and picked up the blue prints from the floor, obviously wanting John to stop talking. “The length and girth of exhaust pipes is essential and its importance is often overlooked.”

John burst out laughing, but he caught himself when he saw Sherlock’s offended expression. 

“How can you build cars and be oblivious to the greater picture. You need everything to go together perfectly to do it right. Every screw can make or break a car.”

“I’m aware, thanks.”

“Exhaust pipes are important.” And this was Sherlock trying to have the last word, John thought, wondering what else they’d be arguing about in the near future.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s just that you …” He knew he could only make it worse, so he shut up and pulled out the notes he had taken last night. “Here. I need to widen the front and rear wings a bit, channel the air to the sides rather than back to the centre of the car, otherwise you’ll drift away. I’ve also figured out how to open up the airbox a bit while sticking to the rules. We’ll see how that becomes you. I’m not sure what to do with the nose, but I think we can keep Kevin’s.”

Sherlock nodded. “I agree. I need more grip. I can work with hard tyres.”

“Were you testing them to figure out if they’ll hold this year?” John started to understand why he had driven the tyres to pieces. Last season’s Silverstone race had seen a massacre of tyres and he could imagine that Lestrade had wanted to make sure that this year wouldn’t end in disaster.

“You catch on quickly, don’t you?”

“Fuck off,” John grinned despite himself. “Do you want to go for a beer later?” He didn’t know where that had come from, but the moment had seemed perfect.

Sherlock looked properly confused. “I just mocked you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“And that makes you want to ask me to spend more time with you so I can mock you some more?”

John chuckled. “Only if I get to return the favour.” He grinned and threw a pen at Sherlock which he caught without looking. “I need some data.”

Sherlock continued to just stand there for a while – long enough to make John wonder whether he was trying to find a way to decline the invitation.

“Height, weight, vision, left or right handed, left or right footed, the usual.”

“Right,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence. He sat down and started scribbling on a notepad, and every now and then he would stop and just stare at the paper in his hands. John watched him while he made a check-list for the tools he needed at the garage. “You okay?” he eventually asked, wondering why Sherlock behaved so strangely.

“You were serious.”

“About the beer? Yes. Why?”

“It’s just,” he closed the notepad and carefully placed the pen on top. “I’ve never been asked to go for drinks.”

John didn’t know what to do with that particular statement, and he definitely wasn’t ready to think too deeply about it, so he got up and shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having so much fun writing this. It's been a long time since I spent so much time thinking about a fic. I do hope that you will continue to enjoy it as well :-) kisses and cookies to those who feed me amazing comments!

There were more hostile stares, but John walked close to Sherlock and kept chatting to him, pretending that he didn’t notice. “No shoes,” John said when they reached the garages. Sherlock seemed ready to make a fuss, but John gave him a stern look. “We can’t have more dirt than necessary in there.”

They passed a few empty garages and then a few in which mechanics worked, and finally they came to Kevin’s garage. Once inside, John opened the note pad Sherlock had filled in and he couldn’t help but smile. “Of course you’re ambidextrous.”

Sherlock gave him a look that told him that he clearly had no idea what to make of John’s statement, so John closed the pad again before he had read through it and took the cover from Kevin’s car. For a moment he felt sick, daunted by the task at hand, and scared to make mistakes. 

“Don’t look so scared, you haven’t even touched the car yet.”

John frowned at Sherlock, who knelt down next to it and put out his hand as if to touch, but he simply let it hover an inch above the dark surface. “Let’s take her apart,” he said, looking up at John. 

“Okay,” John didn’t sound convinced, but he wasn’t alone in this and Sherlock would tell him if he overlooked something. John got out his tools while Sherlock took of his coat jacket and rolled up his sleeves. John saw a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm when he handed him cotton gloves. 

“You smoke?”

“Not anymore.”

John felt a strange urge to tell him off for smoking in the first place, but just the mental image of Sherlock leaning back against a stack of tyres, lazily sucking on a cigarette, made his heart beat faster. “Alright,” he said belatedly, hoping that Sherlock couldn’t read his thoughts in his face. 

They dissembled the car step by step while John narrated his way through it. Sherlock didn’t interrupt him, but he occasionally looked doubtful when John made suggestions. Eventually they had taken everything off and John started on the motor. Sherlock stood close, holding the screwdrivers and a piece of cloth for John to wipe grease off the delicate parts of the motor when he needed it. They didn’t speak a word, and even a frown would cause Sherlock to hand John the right tool. 

John felt a kind of peace he couldn’t remember ever feeling. Once they had taken the motor apart, John carefully assembled the pieces and went through each of them, counting every screw and bolt. Sherlock watched calmly. 

“Okay, now the gearbox.”

Another hour passed while they picked it apart and once John was satisfied that everything was where it was needed, he stood up straight and stretched, yawning loudly. “Come on, we need a break.”

“You need a break,” Sherlock remarked, looking wide awake and focused. 

“I’m starting to think that Jenson is right. You’re not quite human, are you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “You should eat.”

“You’ll eat, too,” he answered and looked fondly at the mess they had made. Pieces of the car covered the entire floor and most of the surfaces. “Look at that. And they say you are the one who destroys cars,” he said with a grin. 

“Not in the cafeteria,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s attempt to lead the conversation away from the food argument. 

“Do you want me to get something and then meet in my office?” He looked Sherlock straight in the eye, hoping that this time he wouldn’t simply disappear. 

Sherlock nodded. 

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you are having. I don’t really care about food.”

John frowned at him. He had met several people in his life who didn’t particularly care for any kind of food as long as it fed them. Sherlock, however, seemed to not care for eating at all. John wondered if he felt that he was wasting time eating when he could be productive instead. 

“Alright, I’ll see you in ten. And don’t disappear on me again!” He waited in the door until Sherlock had nodded. 

At the cafeteria, John filled a tray with pasta, pesto, fresh tomato salad, lots of cheese and three chocolate mousse cups. He passed the table on which Anderson was having a heated discussion with Jenson, and he quickly walked on, not wanting to get involved in anything that was more stressful than imagining to put the car back together later, being responsible for every tiny detail. He felt his hands shake. “Fuck. Not now.” 

Forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply, he walked faster, hoping not to upend the tray somewhere on the way to his office. Once there, he stood in front of the closed door, his knees weak and his hands not willing to listen to his body. Instead of trying to open the door, he called for Sherlock. 

A second later, the door opened and Sherlock looked him up and down. He quickly took the tray from him and put it down on the coffee table next to the sofa. Then he pulled John inside and closed the door. A warm hand pressed John back against the door, keeping him from doubling over, and Sherlock appeared in his field of vision, holding the note pad which he had used earlier. 

“Keep breathing, and stand up straight,” Sherlock urged him and John noticed that he had stopped a few moments ago while his body was craving the oxygen. The realisation brought him even closer to panic. 

“Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six,” Sherlock said calmly, taking John’s erratic breathing with him. He counted to eighty-seven and then slowed down further and eventually gave John the note pad. “Read it out loud.”

John blinked to clear his vision and swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “Sherlock Holmes. 221B Baker Street. 29. Ambidextrous. Prefer left foot to jump, for everything else, right foot. Healed injuries: abdomen, chest, lower lip, right foot. Blood type AB rh neg. Would like to have a beer tonight.”

John stopped and looked at Sherlock, who looked incredibly relieved. Only then he noticed that his breathing had returned to normal and that his hands weren’t shaking anymore. 

“That,” John said with a grin, “is almost romantic.”

Sherlock snorted but didn’t respond otherwise.

“Don’t tell me that you just altered this so you could use it on me if I had a panic attack.”

“When, not if,” Sherlock answered, sitting down cross-legged on the ground in front of the coffee table. “You’ve spent several hours dismantling a car, knowing that you would have to put it all back together. The thought would be daunting and I estimated that a few moments alone would trigger some sort of conscious realisation thereof and in turn trigger a panic attack.”

“How?”

“Maths.”

“Come on. You said you are bad with people and yet you know essential psychological tricks that help me get through my attacks, which, by the way, nobody has managed to do before.”

“I am. But you’re different.”

“How?”

Sherlock frowned and turned his face away. “You laugh at my terrible jokes. You find it impressive rather than offensive when I point out your weaknesses.”

“Have you known someone who got panic attacks?” 

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Sherlock said quietly, his hands unconsciously pushing around the food on the tray. 

“Sorry,” John felt a little guilty for making Sherlock feel uncomfortable. “And thank you, really.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up a plate with pasta from the tray. John sat down on the floor next to Sherlock rather than on the sofa. He did not particularly fancy to look down on him. They ate in silence, Sherlock with his left leg stretched out under the table and his right pulled close to his body so he could rest his plate on his knee, and John cross-legged and close enough to the table that he could rest his elbow on it while he ate.

“You’re twenty nine,” he suddenly said with a grin. “I knew it.”

“Lucky guess. And yes, I am too old for this.”

“No, you’re not!" John almost tipped over his plate when he raised his hands to make an elaborate gesture at him. "Your reaction time is incredible. You are fitter, mentally and physically, than most of the young drivers and you have an incredible amount of energy.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock looked at him as if he expected a ‘but’ to follow John’s outburst.

“You’re going to blow them out of the water,” John smiled and concentrated on his food again. He ate slowly, giving Sherlock time to finish his plate. He could see that he was fighting with it. “How are you so fit if you don’t eat and drink properly?”

Sherlock snorted. “Genes, I guess. My brother wasn’t so lucky. And yet he’s the one addicted to cake.”

“Oh.” 

“What?”

“Well, after yesterday I imagined him to be quite a terrible person if you were so keen on avoiding him, but this changes things a bit.”

“Villains like cake.”

John had to put down his plate as he laughed. 

“What?” Again, Sherlock seemed amused by John’s reaction to his words but did not seem to understand it. 

“Oh Sherlock.”

Sherlock just shrugged and continued to eat, and yet there was a small smile which didn’t seem to disappear again for a long while. 

Once they had both cleared their plates, John handed Sherlock one of the dessert cups. 

“And this is?”

John grinned. “Come on, be a villain.” 

“Are you trying to make me eat dessert?”

“Just eat!”

So Sherlock ate. John took another cup and tucked in, but he could see Sherlock sit up a little straighter once the spoon had passed his lips. John had always loved the chocolate mousse. Apparently they had a French chef just for the desserts and for this one John believed the rumours. “Good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock grunted his approval and John grinned and finished his dessert. “Last cup is for you,” he pointed out when he could see disappointment dawn on Sherlock’s face as he ate his last spoon. 

“This is my downfall. I never wanted to have anything in common with Mycroft.”

“Your parents were quite adventurous on the name front, weren’t they?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I will hold you responsible for this.”

“It’s not cake.”

“It’s dessert.”

“Cake isn’t dessert.”

“John, I am not going to have an argument about cake with you.”

“You can always eat cake.”

“You can always eat mousse au chocolat.”

“Okay, yes, you can always eat dessert. Still, the consistency is different.”

Sherlock shook his head laughing and leaned over to grab the last cup. John smiled as he watched him eat it. 

Half an hour later they were back in Kevin’s garage. John swallowed hard and hoped that Sherlock didn’t notice his trembling hands.

“Give me the list,” Sherlock said and John handed it over. “Gearbox first. I want titanium.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. If you had read my article on the advantages of titanium you would …”

“I know of the advantages of titanium. I also know how expensive it is.”

“You’re working on cars again. It should be worth it to them to know that you have the best material at your disposal.”

John frowned at Sherlock before he pulled out his phone. “Lestrade? Hi. We’re down under and Sherlock had just decided that he wants titanium for the box. Yes. Yes. Okay.”

He looked up at Sherlock’s expectant face. “He said yes?”

“Told me to give you everything you wanted.”

“Ahh, it’s Christmas,” Sherlock looked properly happy. 

John shook his head and started to put a shopping list together which he handed Sherlock. “Go and be useful,” he smiled, pushing him out of the garage. “Second storey, all the way to the left. Give Mike my best.”

Once Sherlock was gone, John began putting together the most basic elements of the car. He felt up to the task without fearing to get anything terribly wrong. When Sherlock returned with a large box and a gleam in his eyes, he suddenly felt ready to go the whole way.

“Okay, let’s do this.” He put on cotton gloves and made Sherlock do the same, despite his protests. Then he cleaned every bit of equipment and started to put a new gearbox together for Sherlock. The changes he made to Kevin’s were small but significant as he could not change the layout of the cases and frames midseason. He knew Sherlock wanted to be able to shift gears as quickly as possible, and that it would ask a lot of the box. He could be lucky to keep this one going until the end of the weekend.

Sherlock took notes and watched John closely. Two hours later, John pulled off his gloves and sat down on the floor, looking at his work. He exhaled slowly and then yawned heartily.

“Here,” Sherlock handed him a bottle of water. “Let’s go outside for a moment.”

“I can’t leave her like this.”

“Why not?”

“Paranoia.”

Sherlock frowned but didn’t argue. 

John stood up again and moved away from the scattered car parts on the floor to open the bottle and he drank deeply. “I’ll use the bathroom. Can you stay here and watch?”

“Are you intending on spending the night with the gear box?” Sherlock mocked him with a smirk. 

“I don’t know yet, maybe.” John chuckled and left the room. He spent a whole five minutes at the sink, letting cold water run over his hands. Then he washed his face and wet his hair. Things were going extraordinarily well, and Sherlock proved to be a perfect team player. He hoped that they would manage to get the car together again to have enough time to drive up to London and find a pub and simply chat. He wanted to know about Sherlock, how he had become who he was. Why he was clearly not used to being accepted for who he was, and why he always seemed completely put out when John touched him. He had chalked Sherlock’s reaction up to the situation yesterday when everyone had been hostile towards him; but he had looked almost shocked when John and Jenson had hugged this morning and that had made him wonder again. He hoped that Sherlock’s aversion to being touched didn’t stem from a horrible experience in the past, and that he simply wasn’t used to it. 

And yet, during John’s panic attack, he had touched him. He had splayed his hand across his sternum and held him back against the door, making sure he wouldn’t curl up and make breathing more difficult. He understood the logic of it, but now that he thought about it again, it felt like something else. There was a hidden strength in the strange genius, a strength which did not just come from his physical fitness, which in itself was a mystery. It was his hand, his voice and his eyes that had pinned John against the door and he had stopped breathing. 

John felt himself blush and looked up to confirm the fear in the mirror. Somehow, in all his panic, he had found himself breathless because Sherlock Holmes was pressing him against a door. “Jesus,” he murmured at his own reflection. He forced himself to think of something else, but now he felt Sherlock’s hand on his chest and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to really ignore that particular feeling. He pressed his wet hand against his sternum as if to override the phantom sensation of Sherlock’s hand. 

The door opened and someone else walked in, shaking John out of his thoughts. He dried his hands and face and made his way back to the garage. Sherlock sat on a chair at the desk and wrote something on his note pad. He turned when John cleared his throat and John saw his eyes wander from his face to his chest. He looked down and saw that his own wet hand had left a clear print on his shirt. 

Shop talk, John reminded himself. “Okay, let’s do the motor.”

Sherlock closed the note pad and pulled on his gloves again. “Are you good to go?”

“Ready when you are.”


	9. Chapter Nine

It was midnight when they screwed the nose on. John leaned against the wall and then slid down until he sat on the floor. Sherlock cracked his knuckles and ruffled his hair. He was finally showing hints of exhaustion. 

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” John said with a yawn. Now that his work was done and every last bit was in its designated place, John felt the tension of working under self-imposed pressure fall off him, leaving him feeling as if he had run a marathon. 

“You can’t take tomorrow off. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Tomorrow we test drive.”

“Fine. I need to sleep, though.”

“Are you awake enough to drive to London?”

John pulled a face. “No idea. I could sleep right here.”

“Ah,” Sherlock grinned. “You just won’t leave your gearbox alone.”

“I don’t care about the gearbox right now. I care about lying down and closing my eyes. Sorry, by the way. I don’t think beer is going to happen tonight.”

Sherlock grinned at that. “I’ll drive.”

“You will?”

“I do prefer my bed instead of the floor, or the couch in your office, for that matter,” Sherlock chuckled. “Come on. Time to go home.”

John followed him outside. It took him more than a minute to tie his shoes. Exhaustion weighed him down. Almost everyone had left already and he saw the effect it had on Sherlock. He walked tall and confident and looked very much at home. And John made a resolution right there and then – to make sure that Sherlock would always walk like this next to him, no matter who was around.

John fell asleep as soon as he had sat down in the car. For some reason he had absolutely no qualms about letting Sherlock drive his car, despite the reputation Lestrade and others had repeatedly pointed out to him. When he woke up, he recognised Baker Street. “I’m sorry, I just … god,” he yawned and stretched. Sherlock watched him quietly. 

“Thanks for driving, I think I can do the rest alone.”

“You’re not driving anywhere tonight,” Sherlock said and opened his door. “You sleep on the couch. It’s much more convenient.” 

John tried to wake up properly, but his eye lids were heavy and he would have loved nothing more than to curl up in his car and just go back to sleep.

“Come on!”

“Alright,” he yawned and shook his head in order to wake himself up. “I’m up, I’m up.”

He followed Sherlock into the house and up a set of stairs and was more than happy to drop down on the couch Sherlock pointed at when they had entered the flat. Sherlock brought him sheets and a cushion and put down a glass of water on the coffee table next to the couch.

“The bathroom is just through there, the kitchen is there. I sleep in that room,” he pointed at doors which John was too tired to notice. He couldn’t remember ever coming down this hard from an adrenaline high. 

“Alright. Good. Thank you.” John was ready to fall asleep again and he pulled off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, downed the glass of water and spread out the sheet. He blinked tiredly at Sherlock, who stood a bit awkwardly over him. “Good night.”

“Good night, John.” Sherlock said quietly and turned to leave John alone, and as soon as John had found a comfortable position on the couch he fell asleep. 

He was woken up by his bladder. Grunting, John rubbed his face, turned onto his side to make himself more comfortable and blinked at the strange room he found himself in. He was in Sherlock’s flat, there was no doubt about it. Various pieces of vehicles were sitting everywhere in the room. There was a poster of a T-model on the wall across from John and he saw several miniature cars sitting on the mantel piece. 

John got up and made for the corridor, knowing that the bathroom was probably at the end of it. He found himself in front of two very similar looking white doors. One must be Sherlock’s room and the other the bathroom, he was fairly sure. Just when he decided that the bathroom was probably the one straight ahead and raised his fist to knock, just in case, that door opened and Sherlock almost walked into him. 

His hair was even messier than John had supposed it could be and he looked like he had gotten a good night’s sleep, but could easily sleep another two or three hours. After the initial shock of almost walking into another person who clearly shouldn’t be in his flat, Sherlock exhaled and smiled at John. “Bathroom is this one,” he indicated with his right thumb. 

“Morning, how did you sleep?” John answered, wondering if Sherlock usually needed some time in the morning to lose the softness around his eyes and become alert and sharp. 

When Sherlock didn’t answer but simply stood there and looked at John, he turned and opened the bathroom door. 

“Towels are next to the sink,” Sherlock said quietly and then moved along the corridor and out of sight. Only then did John realise that Sherlock was wearing only a towel. Somehow, this realisation made John feel much better about what he feared might become a problem. If he had found himself staring at Sherlock’s middle, things would have grown incredibly awkward incredibly quickly. But no, he had looked at his face, checking for traces of sleep and rest, wanting to make sure that he had had a good night.

Once he had undressed, he noticed that there was a second door to the bathroom, apparently leading to Sherlock’s room. So that’s why he hadn’t heard him even if he already had had a shower. He wondered how long Sherlock had been awake last night. John had slept no more than six hours, and that included the nap in the car. They would definitely need to finish work sooner today. 

John showered quickly and towelled himself off. He caught his reflection in the mirror, and looked at the glaring scar close to his collar bone that was too visible to be ignored, too fresh to be forgotten. He gingerly touched it and flinched at the memory of pain. He dressed in his worn clothes again, conscious of the faint smell of sweat. They’d have to drive by his place so he could get dressed properly, but for now he did not want to face Sherlock wearing nothing but a towel, so this would have to do. 

When he walked back into the living room, Sherlock had already removed the sheet from the couch and put down a cup of tea on the coffee table. He sat in the kitchen, reading something on his computer. John felt a little awkward standing in the door, watching him for a moment. Then he sat down on the couch to drink his tea. “Thank you,” he said when Sherlock didn’t give a sign that he had noticed John’s return from the bathroom. 

Sherlock looked up and nodded curtly before offering John a flash of a smile. Then he closed the laptop and stood up. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He disappeared in his room, and once he came out, he looked put together and awake. “I hope you slept well, but then again you probably would have slept well had I offered you to sleep on the race-track,” Sherlock grinned and scratched the back of his head. “We should head out soon so you can change. I'm assuming that you do want to get a fresh pair of pants. Lestrade seems to want to take us up to the track today.”

Wednesday, John thought, ignoring Sherlock's mention of his underwear. Suddenly time moved incredibly fast. They only had two more days to make sure that the car they had built was a car that could carry Sherlock where he wanted it to go. "Thanks for the couch and thanks for driving me home."

Sherlock smiled wordlessly and ushered him out of the flat. 

Soon they were on their way to John’s place. John was driving and Sherlock seemed immersed in something he read on his phone. Once there, John told Sherlock to wait and he quickly pulled on the first pieces of acceptable clothing he found in his wardrobe and was back in the car within ten minutes. 

The drive to Woking was calm despite the traffic in London. Once on the motorway, they were moving quickly. Sherlock kept glancing at John frequently, as if to check for signs of a panic attack. For some reason, John found it reassuring while, at the same time, he felt slightly uncomfortable with Sherlock’s interest in him. John thought about that for a while and came to the conclusion that he was uncomfortable with being watched with such scrutiny because Sherlock could not only tell if he was about to freak out, but probably also a few other things which John wasn’t crazy about Sherlock knowing. 

He tried not to think about Sherlock at all, focussing on the impending test drive. “If you kill the car today, I will find you and I will end you,” he said with a straight face, noticing Sherlock’s wide eyed stare before he realised that he was joking. Instead of a laugh, Sherlock just exhaled noisily and then looked back down on his phone. “What are you reading, anyway?”

Sherlock sighed and held the phone out to John. John glanced at it, trying to keep his eyes on the road as much as possible. Sherlock was reading results. Lists and lists of statistics about his fellow drivers. “Are you nervous?”

“No, why would I be?” Sherlock made a face that was doubtlessly supposed to make John see just how tedious he found the question.

“Liar,” John said quietly, looking away from Sherlock on purpose. 

“Fine, yes, maybe. A bit.” Sherlock said between his teeth and John tried hard not to smile.

“Me, too. Friday I’ll be ready to throw up.”

“Please don’t.”

Sherlock sounded actually worried and John grinned and patted his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn away from you.”

Sherlock sat very still for a moment and then he began reading on his phone again. John tried not to think about that particular reaction too much.

They didn’t talk until they arrived at Woking and once there, Lestrade found them immediately and walked them down into the garage while briefing them on the plans for the day. “Please remember that you’re not testing the limits of the car, Sherlock. Just try to get a feel for it and then save the rest for the weekend, yes? Good. I’ll be back in an hour. Go and have some breakfast and then see me down here. Coffee might be good, too, John. You look a bit tired.”

“Thanks,” he said, pulling a face. 

Once Lestrade had disappeared, John yawned heartily. “Alright, breakfast. Come on.”

“Do we have to?”

“We can eat in the office, but it’s actually not so bad in the cafeteria. The sun being out and all.”

Sherlock made a noise that could have meant anything from approval to absolute distaste and John decided to take that as a yes. 

The cafeteria wasn’t too crowded, and they found a table by the window away from everyone else. John smiled at Sherlock and then tucked in, noticing only now how hungry he was after not really eating properly last night and then only having had tea for breakfast earlier. 

Sherlock ate very little, but at least he drank two cups of tea and when John peeled an orange and put half of it on Sherlock’s plate, he didn’t protest. 

“So you watched me put the car together.” John needed to talk about it before allowing Sherlock to get in the car and drive it. He needed reassurance. Sherlock nodded while sucking on a bit of orange. 

“You didn’t see anything that could cause trouble, anything that could fall off?”

“No. The car is perfect, John. Don’t worry about it. I won’t crash.”

John nodded, praying that he was right. 

Lestrade came to pick them up just when Sherlock had changed into race gear. John had checked the car twice while Sherlock had calmly watched him and eventually he felt ready to let go. He concentrated very hard on his own notes while Sherlock put on his fireproofs behind a screen in the corner, trying not to think of the fact that he needed to strip down completely to put them on. 

Several other mechanics arrived to help them push the car outside and load it on a truck which drove them to the testing track. Jenson was already there and John could see Anderson sneer at Sherlock when he climbed out of the truck. “Are you here to break my car?” he asked as soon as Sherlock was close enough to hear. Sherlock inhaled deeply while walking up to him until he had invaded his personal space. “I wouldn’t touch your car with a ten foot pole,” Sherlock replied and promptly turned around to watch his own car being slowly lifted out of the truck. John walked over to Jenson and tried to smile. “These two are going to rip each other’s heads off.”

“How are you?” Jenson asked instead of commenting on John’s remark. “You look a bit tired.”

“It was a late night. I wanted him to see me put the car together. I needed to take that time.”

Jenson nodded and gave him a half hug. “Let’s see what we can do with these babies.”

Sherlock looked slightly disgusted by his team mate’s term of endearment for their cars but the moment the cars were sitting next to each other and the crew started to arrive, a change came over Sherlock. John could see how he stopped perceiving everything that happened around him and concentrated only on what was right in front of him. It was as if he checked off an imaginary to do list, his eyes flicking over the car, then to Jenson, back to the car, to John and back to the car. “Okay, I’m ready,” he eventually said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McLaren don’t have their own test track, only Ferrari do, but let’s pretend, yes?! :-)


	10. Chapter Ten

John held out his helmet to him. He hadn’t chosen a design yet, and John wondered whether he’d bother with something like that. Sherlock took it and then locked eyes with John. “Don’t worry about the car,” he said quietly before putting the helmet on and climbing into the car. John sighed. “The car is not what I’m worried about,” he said under his breath and only noticed a second too late that Lestrade had heard him. He cleared his throat and took a few steps back, watching as the car was unhooked from the cables and the tyre warmers were taken off. 

Taking a seat at the conning board, John tried to relax. He felt his heart in his throat when the noise of the motors jumping to life disrupted the silence of the quiet test track. Everyone took their positions and then they were allowed to go. Jenson went first and Sherlock followed a few seconds later. John’s eyes were trained on Sherlock’s car. It sounded alright and from what he could see, it was working as well as he had hoped. Sherlock took the first lap slowly, following John’s advice to get to know the track first and to not kill the tyres if he could help it. Once Jenson took off, though, Sherlock pushed down on the accelerator and within five laps he had almost caught up with the other car. John smiled when he heard members of the team discuss Sherlock’s great performance. He glanced at Lestrade who had a satisfied smile on his face as he spoke to both drivers via the team radio. 

Even though Sherlock had shown that he could handle both the car and the track, John could almost feel the energy that had built up around him. The need to go faster, to actually race Jenson, to see if he could overtake him was palpable to John. But he knew that Lestrade wouldn’t allow that for now and he wondered what Sherlock would do to calm himself down again. He’d get in trouble if he tried to leave his initial on the track like he had at Silverstone. 

Then Jenson made a minute mistake and drifted slightly off track and like a shark Sherlock attacked and was past him. John stole a glance at Lestrade again, fearing that he might dress Sherlock down, but all he saw was a small, proud grin. John dared to walk over to him. “So,” he simply said. His boss looked at him and his grin grew wider. “You two …” he shook his head and laughed when Jenson complained over the radio. 

Lestrade told Jenson to go and get his position back, but he didn’t stand a chance. After another couple of laps Sherlock was already ten seconds ahead of him. John bit his lower lip hard, trying to not burst with pride. Sherlock was driving beautifully and his car’s statistics looked incredible. He only hoped that the engine would hold until Sunday. God, if Sherlock drove then like he did now, he’d floor everyone. 

John could barely stand still when the two cars returned to the pits. When Sherlock had climbed out of his car and taken off his helmet, grinning at John as if he had just performed a magic trick and only John knew how he had done it, John felt the overwhelming urge to hug him. Remembering Sherlock’s apparent aversion to being touched, he grinned up at him and took his helmet and hugged it to his chest instead. “Definitely beer tonight,” he said and Sherlock nodded his approval. 

Jenson looked a bit pale and shook his head when he grabbed Sherlock’s hand to shake it. “Bloody amazing.”

The next few hours rushed by. They returned to the HQ, cleaned the cars, checked and double checked the computer results and eventually met for a final briefing. Sherlock was officially introduced to everyone on the staff as Kevin’s replacement and despite some disapproving voices, John noticed that Sherlock had managed to change quite a few opinions this morning. He felt incredibly proud of him. Sherlock sat motionless in his chair, miles away in his mind and John guessed that he was going through the track, linking today’s driving exercise with the real thing. 

Once the briefing was over and everyone had been updated on the proceedings of the weekend, John found himself pulled away by several of his colleagues who congratulated him on building Sherlock’s car and enquired what it was like to work with a mad man. John shook his head and tried to not wince at the derogative terms which were thrown at him to describe Sherlock. 

He saw Sherlock still sitting in the chair, as if he hadn’t realised that everyone was leaving. “He’s none of the things you just called him,” John insisted, trying to speak quietly. He felt embarrassed to speak about Sherlock while he sat only a few feet away. “He’s absolutely brilliant. A brilliant driver. Josh, you’ve seen him today. He left the car in perfect condition.”

Suddenly Sherlock stood behind the man John had just addressed. He looked angry. “I don’t need you to defend me, John.” For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say more, but then he turned around and left the room with long angry strides.

John felt his ears burn. For some reason he felt wronged by Sherlock, even though he had felt uncomfortable about the situation, too. “Excuse me,” he apologised and followed Sherlock. The great hall was empty and John wondered where he could have gone; certainly not his office or the garage if he was upset and wanted to be left alone. 

He sighed and instead sent Sherlock a text, simply saying ‘sorry.’ Back in his office, John tried to concentrate on the check list which Lestrade had left him, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. He’d been so happy about this morning, so proud of Sherlock, and his work, too, even if he felt that he owed most of it to Sherlock’s calming presence. He tried calling him, but the phone rang out and John decided to let it rest for now. He felt sad that he’d now probably not get to celebrate with Sherlock that night, but in the end he needed to finish work first. 

Once he had reached the end of his list, he pushed his chair away from his desk, rested his feet on it and leaned back, closing his eyes. He had only wanted to rest, but when he opened his eyes again he knew that he had been properly asleep for more than just a few minutes. Rubbing his face, John felt a little more self-assured about the situation earlier. He had done the right thing, even if Sherlock felt differently about it. 

Needing to move, John decided to take a walk and see if anyone could tell him where Sherlock had ended up. When he stepped out of his office, he found Sherlock sitting next to his door, his back against the wall, with knees drawn close to his body, staring at his phone. Next to him sat two bottles of Heineken. 

“There you are,” John said before he could think of something clever to say. Sherlock looked up at him. He looked tired, like he had after Donovan had mocked him in his office. 

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said and held out a hand for John to take to help him up. John smiled and pulled him up, being incredibly aware of the five inches Sherlock had on him now that he stood so close. John only had a second to ponder on it, though, as Sherlock straightened his jacket and started walking away. “Don’t forget the beer,” he said without turning around.

“Is that what you think I meant when I said let’s go and have a beer?” John was too amused to be annoyed by Sherlock’s behaviour. He figured there would always be a thin line between annoyance and whatever else Sherlock had to offer to make up for it. 

He went back into his office to grab his keys, phone and wallet and then locked the door, picked up the bottles and jogged after Sherlock. He caught up with him at the main entrance and followed him outside. “I told Lestrade that you need sleep,” Sherlock offered as an explanation when John stood somewhat hesitantly in front of his car to which Sherlock had led them. 

“I do need sleep,” John offered when Sherlock didn’t elaborate. 

“Let’s go home then.”

“Okay,” John unlocked the car and handed Sherlock the bottles when he had sat down.

Neither of them said a word on the way to London and when they got stuck in traffic, Sherlock rolled down the window and the noise of the city took up John’s concentration. Very soon he realised he was driving to his own place and not Baker Street. When he parked the car in front of his flat, he remembered that he didn’t have a couch that Sherlock could sleep on and that he only had a twin bed. He decided very quickly not to worry about that specific aspect too much. He would just put Sherlock into a taxi to make sure to get a good night’s rest. 

Wordlessly he unlocked his front door and led Sherlock up into his third storey flat. He fumbled with his keys when he tried to unlock the door to his flat and he had to exhale slowly before he found the right key. Sherlock was equally silent. 

As soon as John had opened his door, he immediately walked into his flat, put his wallet and phone down on the kitchen table and opened the fridge, waiting for Sherlock to place the beer bottles inside. “We’ll do this properly,” John said when Sherlock raised an eye-brow at him. “Pub and all.”

Sherlock nodded slowly and then turned around to look at John’s flat, hesitantly, as if he waited for John's permission. John owned very few things apart from his car and the awards he had received over the years. They stood inside an old bookshelf, hidden behind milky glass. Sherlock gave John a look that made him feel self-conscious again. “I’m the only one here and I don’t need them to show me that my career as a driver is over.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock suddenly said, turning away and then back to face him, his usually so expressive hands hanging at his sides as if he had forgotten how to use them. “I just don’t want you do feel that you have to make excuses for me. You don’t have to defend me.”

John pursed his lips and folded a tea towel into a small square before he answered. “I wanted to.”

The way Sherlock looked at him made John hold on tightly to the small piece of cloth in his hand. He looked surprised and sad. 

“I just wish you’d stand up to them. They saw what you are capable of today and you were bloody brilliant. You didn’t offend anyone, you didn’t destroy a single part of the car, and you took that track like a pro. You have every reason to be proud of that. I am proud of what you did today. That’s why I couldn’t stay quiet.”

Sherlock continued to look at him, almost as if he didn’t quite understand what John was saying, and John felt something grow in his stomach. He needed a moment to identify what he was feeling. Anger. He felt absolutely and breathtakingly angry at whoever had been the first one to tell Sherlock that he was a freak, that he was useless and dangerous and mad. 

“You’ve only known me for a few days.”

“And I have yet to see you do something irrational or dangerous or careless. Apart from the walking away, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about your abilities, your talent. You know exactly what you’re doing and Lestrade knows it and yet he leaves everyone in the dark about why you are really here. How you got here. That you deserve to be here.” John was shouting now he tried to get his voice under control. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. He was angry with Sherlock now, too. Why did he not simply tell people to fuck off? Why did he stand there and look like nobody had ever taken his side in this argument and he didn’t know how to react at all. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, not wanting to scare Sherlock away again. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth through the room, as if he tried very hard to find something to change the subject. John desperately wanted him to find something. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again and scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning and he could feel his stubble quite prominently. “Do you want anything or should we just go and find a place to sit down?”

Sherlock shrugged and then nodded. “It’s fine,” he simply said, and John wanted to hug him for letting him off the hook so easily. 

“Okay, the Black Pearl is right down the street. They have decent beer on tab.”

Sherlock nodded his approval and five minutes later they entered the yet uncrowded pub. The place would fill up in an hour, but for now they found a quiet table by one of the large windows. “What are you going to have?” John asked. 

“Whatever it is that you are having,” Sherlock answered and John guessed that Sherlock wasn’t really into beer. The random lager bottles had already given him a hint, though the gesture was incredibly sweet. John stared at the glass that was being filled with Guinness as he tried to ignore that his mind kept going back to the image of him sitting there, next to his office, looking up at him with careful hope in his eyes.


	11. Chapter Eleven

“I’m sorry I got loud a minute ago,” he said once he sat down across from Sherlock. He could see Sherlock’s jaw working as if he wanted to say something and tried very hard to hold himself back. “It’s just,” John continued, hoping Sherlock would understand, “that I’ve never met anyone like you. I’m really fucking impressed by what you can do and I do think that you deserve respect.”

Sherlock picked up his beer and shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of respect for other people, so I see why they don’t respect me.” He took a sip and made a face. John kept staring at his drink. “Well,” he finally said, picking up his Guinness, “I disagree.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. 

“I will continue to speak up when I think people are assholes, and I will not apologise for it.”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked out of the window. John could see that he tried to hide a smile and he felt much better all of the sudden. “Now,” he said, “let’s talk about something else.”

“Such as?” Sherlock took a cautious look at him. 

“Your flat.”

“Oh,” Sherlock frowned, but John could see that his shoulders had lost a bit of the tension they had carried just a moment ago. 

“It’s pretty fantastic.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“I wish my place was big enough to accommodate my non-existent collection of extraordinary machinery.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

John grinned and gently kicked Sherlock’s foot underneath the table. Sherlock’s left eye brow rose in question. “Both.”

“I didn’t offer you a choice.”

“The other choice was me being serious,” John argued. “Logic. Something you claim to be so good at.”

“I never claimed. I am. And sarcasm and sincerity are not a binary pair.”

John chuckled and took another sip. Sherlock mirrored him. By the look on his face, Sherlock slowly got used to the taste.

“But it’s really nice, your place.”

Sherlock didn’t thank him again, or say anything else for that matter, and John slowly started to understand that Sherlock wasn’t a small talk kind of guy. He was extremely good at coming up with responses to what John threw at him, but simply chatting didn’t seem to be his forte. 

“So, who put that photo of you on the internet?”

Sherlock made a face that made John laugh.

“Come on. Was it that brother of yours?”

“He insists that I have a public image.” Sherlock sounded as if John had managed to start on a subject that was even more tedious than talking about Sherlock’s relationship with people in general. 

“Why not put a picture up on your blog?”

“It’s not about me, John. It’s about the facts. I don’t need people to know what I look like or who I am to read the facts.”

“Would be a nice touch, though?” 

“If this weekend turns out the way we both hope it will, I won’t be able to keep my face off the internet after all.”

“Yeah, pictures of the surprise winner plastered all over national and international newspapers.”

“Something I’ll have to live with.”

“You like being anonymous?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No.” John conceded, remembering a time when he could hardly eat lunch in public without having to sign some kid’s shirt. He had to smile, imagining Sherlock trying to accommodate a child’s wish for an autograph.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I just want to be there when people start asking you to sign things.”

“I won’t sign anything,” Sherlock said, and John knew that whatever next week would bring, it would bring some major adjustments in Sherlock’s perception of himself and the world. He would definitely not say no to a seven-year-old kid with bright eyes who’d call him his hero.

“Stop smiling,” Sherlock complained, making John smile wider. 

“You were incredible today.”

“You built a fairly decent car,” Sherlock smirked and leaned back in his seat. John felt the tip of his shoe coming to rest against his own. He didn’t pull his foot away.

“Jenson was so annoyed when you overtook him. But I think he’s mostly impressed. He’ll come around and then he’ll put up a fight. Notice how Anderson didn’t say a single word after the test?” John grinned. “He knows we’re not bluffing.”

Sherlock finished his beer. “This isn’t as terrible as I imagined it to be.”

“Oh thanks,” John retorted and refused to feel a tiny bit colder when Sherlock stood up to get them a second round. He sat up straight, berating himself for getting caught in something which could potentially distract him from his job in the long run. 

“What are you going to put on your helmet?” He asked when Sherlock returned, more to distract himself than anything else.

“I was waiting for you to ask,” Sherlock placed a pint in front of John while John finished his first. Then he pulled out his phone and scrolled through a few pictures before he held it out for John to see. John stared, open-mouthed. 

The photo showed a greyish-white helmet which was painted to look like a skull. John swallowed hard and looked up at Sherlock. “That’ll convince them that you’re a nice person.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m not trying to …”

John held up a hand to signal him to stop talking. “I know. I’m joking. Did you paint this?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Is that what you did when you disappeared the other day?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip and eventually nodded. “The idea came to me and I had to work on it immediately. I needed time to think about the details and after I had finished it, I returned to Woking.”

“You could have just told me, you know? Would have been nice to know that you didn’t just randomly walk away but that you did something to help you focus on the race.”

Sherlock looked a bit surprised and then nodded. “I suppose that is why I did it. Yes.”

“So you’ll go out there and win this race with a helmet painted like a skull. And you are annoyed by the notion that your picture will end up on the internet,” John chuckled. “This will ensure that they write essays about you.”

“So you think it’s a bad idea?”

John shrugged. “I really like it. It’s a bit macabre, but also really cool. But maybe it’s not the best way to introduce yourself to the sport and the public, you know?”

Sherlock nodded and ran his long index finger along the rim of his glass. John tried to look at something else. “So you suggest I present myself as plainly as possible?”

“Yes, because then they’ll be the more surprised to see what’s under that helmet.” John grinned, imagining Sherlock pulling off his helmet and fireproof balaclava, revealing his wild curls and an arrogant smile. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “I’ll keep the helmet for some other time.”

“Do you think you could stay if you win?” John didn’t know what Lestrade planned on doing after everyone on the team was well again and he had no idea whether talking about a possible win wasn't a gross overestimation.

“They won’t let Vandoorne go just because I came along,” Sherlock said. “They want to raise him for the team and I’m too old.”

“So it’s just now. Just this weekend?” John tried to blame the beer for a heavy feeling that settled in his stomach. He hadn’t really thought this through, being too excited about finally doing again what he loved doing most. 

“Better make it a good one, then,” Sherlock said and clinked glasses with John.

“Cheers.”

The pub gradually filled up and soon it became too crowded and noisy for them to have a proper conversation, so they finished their drinks and made their way back to John’s flat. John wondered whether he should ask Sherlock to come up for a cup of tea, and the closer they got to his door, the more unsure he felt about how to proceed. He wanted to learn more about Sherlock. He wanted to know why he painted a skull on his helmet, why he always wore bespoke clothes and why he wouldn’t talk about his brother. 

Sherlock made the decision for him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Back at the circuit.”

John nodded. It would feel strange to see the track crowded with other teams setting up camp and the first fans arriving for the race weekend. “I suppose so, yes. Get some rest. You did so well today. I’m very proud ….” John didn’t finish his sentence, feeling silly saying something like that to Sherlock. He couldn’t remember telling anyone ever that he was proud of them, but here he was, feeling so very proud of what Sherlock had done, even though it seemed as if he had simply done what he always did. Lestrade hadn’t even seemed overly impressed, but John was still brimming with pride. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a small smile and raised his arm, conjuring up a cab out of thin air. “Good night, John.”

John waved awkwardly and then unlocked his door for the third time that day. When he entered his flat, he had the strangest feeling that he was a visitor in his own home.


	12. Chapter Twelve

John knew that he should go to bed and sleep, but he sat at his kitchen table and stared at his phone. Sherlock hadn’t texted him once. He had never called back. Yet John had saved the picture he had taken of Sherlock when he found him asleep in his office in Sherlock’s caller ID file. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t quite as excited about having met John as John would have liked him to be. He couldn’t lie to himself. He liked Sherlock, he really liked him. He wanted to be friends and colleagues and partners and he wanted Sherlock to trust him. He wanted him around to talk to, to pitch ideas to, to have him watch him work, to help him feel safe. 

But he irritated Sherlock. He knew he tried to hide it, but he did. There was a reason why he didn’t talk about his brother, why he didn’t ask John about his family, about his life outside of motorsports. He was, despite his slightly strange definition of professionalism, much more aware of why he was here and what he was here to do. 

And there was a real possibility that after Sunday Sherlock would disappear from his life again and the thought made him even sadder now that he was alone. John stared at his phone, wondering if he should apologise to Sherlock, just in case he felt pressured by John’s interest in him. Then he decided to just let it go and turn in for the night. 

Just before he fell asleep, his phone beeped, announcing that he had received an email. He opened his mailbox and found a picture of a pitch black helmet with the number 40 written in very fine lettering on the sides in silver. 

“Nice,” he texted Sherlock. 

His phone beeped again, this time announcing a text. “Good night, John.”

John decided to not text back, but he smiled at the fact that Sherlock had finally texted him. He berated himself for being a silly sod, but he couldn’t stop the small spark of happiness that darted through him just before he fell asleep.

He opened his eyes just before his alarm went off. Grinning, he sat up and yawned heartily. Thursday. The first day of the race weekend. Today he would see Sherlock drive in Silverstone and it would be glorious. After a shower he made sure to eat a proper breakfast and then he packed a couple of water bottles, just in case Sherlock had forgotten about their arrangement. He also dropped some apples into his backpack, in case Sherlock refused the catering at the circuit. 

Mike picked him up at 8 o’clock and John greeted him cheerfully. 

“You look much better than yesterday,” Mike remarked. “Did you get some rest?”

“I did. And I’m actually looking forward to today.”

“Josh told me about the incident yesterday. Said Sherlock was bit miffed.”

John frowned and then shrugged. “They were being unfair and I told them that Sherlock isn’t so bad.”

“He sort of is, though,” Mike said, sounding like he was trying to break some rather unpleasant news to John that he was sure he didn’t want to hear. “He’s a genius, alright, but he’s cost a lot of people a lot of money and nerves. He’s behaving comparatively civil right now, but I think he’s just trying to not disappoint you. I know that Lestrade can tell you more about it, but when people are angry with him, it’s usually not just because they are irritated by his talent.”

John looked at him, and he knew Mike had his best interest at heart, but he felt that he was being unfair, even though he probably had a point. He didn’t really know anything about Sherlock’s past, but then again, he didn’t want to hear about his escapades from Mike or someone else who had been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s anger. 

“I took him out to the pub last night,” John said, hoping that Mike wouldn’t think that he had gone completely mad. “He said it was the first time anyone had ever asked him out for after work drinks.”

“Are you surprised? I mean, no offense, but I wouldn’t necessarily want to spend an evening at the pub with a megalomaniac.”

“It was actually quite pleasant,” John said quietly, wondering if this weekend would shape up to be John and Sherlock against the rest of the world.

“Probably because you are the most patient man in the world. You seem to have a much higher tolerance for his antics than most.” Mike shrugged and concentrated on the road. 

John texted Lestrade, asking to meet him so he could talk to him about Sherlock. He didn’t want any animosity in the air during this weekend. 

At Silverstone John already felt the energy of the place. Trucks had begun to arrive and he could hear several motors warming up already. His heart leaped. There was a constant excitement in the air before race weekends, but he was used to that. He wasn’t used to the butterflies he felt when he thought about Sunday, picturing Sherlock in pole position. Mike squeezed his shoulder. “No matter what I said, he’s definitely good for you,” he smiled and walked away, leaving John to inhale deeply and get into the right headspace to face the day. 

He found Lestrade in the pit which was buzzing with action. The cars were both on the track already and John wanted nothing more than to climb up on the wall and watch Sherlock and Jenson race each other. Lestrade took him further into the pit box where it was quieter and they could talk. 

“You’re worried about him,” Lestrade looked like he was trying to explain something to John which he didn’t have the words for. 

“I’m not worried about him. I’m worried for him.”

“I didn’t want to tell you when he asked. Taking you on seemed the only option to get him to agree to drive this weekend.”

“You could have asked someone else. You wanted Sherlock. What did you neglect to tell me about him.”

“I’ve … known him for a while,” Lestrade started. “Saw him at a go-cart race a couple of years ago, well, more than that. I’ve known him since he was a kid. He was always difficult, never quite adjusted. He doesn’t believe that racing is a team sport, that’s why nobody ever bothered to ask him.”

“I’m not surprised,” John admitted. “But why are people so afraid of him?”

“Afraid? Well, if you want to put it like that.”

“Sally almost didn’t let me go back to my office on Monday. She told me to stay away from him. What did he do to her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Tell me. I need to know what happened.”

“He raced her brother once. He overdid it and caused an accident. Sally’s brother lost a leg. Sherlock denied responsibility…”

“Was he at fault?” John asked, silently begging Lestrade to tell him that Sherlock had done nothing wrong.

“Nobody really knows.”

“Did he feel responsible?” John felt a knot in his stomach. He knew the answer before Lestrade spoke. “Of course he did. He never told anyone, but I could tell.”

“Jesus.” John scratched the back of his head. “And why do you let him test drive? Why ask him to drive this weekend?”

“He’s the best driver I’ve ever seen and he deserves another shot.”

John nodded, glad to have gained some insight into what kind of person Sherlock was underneath all those layers of expertise and cocky arrogance. “Thanks.”

“John?” Lestrade called him back when John started walking away. 

“He knows that you don’t think badly of him. I think that’s the only reason why he agreed.”

“No,” John smiled sadly at his boss. “He agreed because he knew he could fix me.”

He did not wait for an answer. Climbing up on the wall that separated the track from the pits, John watched Jenson and Sherlock fly by with mixed feelings. He did not know what to make of the new information he had learned about Sherlock, and even though he understood much better why he behaved the way he did, he wished that Sherlock would tell him in person. It felt wrong to hear it from someone who doubtlessly knew him well, but maybe didn’t really understand what Sherlock had gone through. 

John was fairly sure that Sherlock knew about panic attacks because he had suffered from them just as John did now, only he had to teach himself to overcome them on his own. He didn’t have someone to talk him through them, not if what he knew about Sherlock was true. More than ever John felt the urge to pull Sherlock into a hug and just hold him.

He wiped his face, amazed that he could get so lost in his own head when so many people were around. The cars returned to the pits and other teams began sending their cars on the track. John remained where he was, unable to face Sherlock now. He watched as Kimi’s F14-T rushed by, followed closely by Fernando. With each new car that entered the track, John felt more and more confident. 

“Hello John,” Sherlock suddenly materialised next to John and he tried very hard not to reach out for him. 

“Hey. It’s going well, isn’t it?”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock looked a bit concerned and John nodded, looking Sherlock up and down to distract himself from feeling sorry for him. Sherlock was wearing the proper team colours now, white and red being the prominent colours. He smiled at Sherlock’s helmet in his hand. 

“Please tell me you didn’t paint over the skull. All that work for nothing.”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock countered. “It’s at home, awaiting more macabre times to be put to use.”

“Should I be worried?”

Sherlock grinned. “The car is doing well,” he then said, sobering up a bit. “So far I’ve had no trouble.”

“So far?” John teased and Sherlock scrunched up his nose, making John grin. “Why did you choose number 40?”

“Nobody else has it.”

John nodded. To imagine that Sherlock would choose a number because he felt it would bring him luck seemed silly in hindsight, and yet he would have liked to know whether there was a lucky number or another, deeper meaning attached to it. 

“Jenson won’t shut up about his two little ducks. It’s ridiculous.”

“You like him,” John realised as he said it and Sherlock gave him a sheepish look. 

“I imagined him to be more … I don’t know what I imagined,” Sherlock admitted. “Do you want to get some tea? If you are free, that is.”

John nodded and they climbed down the wall and headed towards the restaurant. Just to be sure, John jogged up the stairs before Sherlock, not wanting to get distracted by the slightly too tight suit. He wondered if Sherlock would regret his choice during the race. The suit would cling to him like a too warm blanket, holding the heat inside. He remembered how hot it had occasionally gotten during races and he remembered that he had brought Sherlock water. He’d put that away for him in case he’d need it later or tomorrow. At the same time, he knew he was being ridiculous as Sherlock would be handed water by a team member as soon as he'd hold out a hand. 

They had a whole five minutes of quiet before Donovan showed up and sat down across from them. Sherlock sat stock still and John had to sit on his hands in order not to grab Sherlock’s arm or leg to reassure him that he was on his side.

When she spoke, she made sure to address John only. “We’ll need you down for the press conference tomorrow. You can drive up here for the free practice in the afternoon, but they want to interview you in Woking. They hail it as your great comeback.” She pursed her lips and glanced at Sherlock. “He’s not invited.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks, Sally,” John tried his best to sound pleasant and to ignore the elephant in the room, but it was infinitely harder now that he knew more about the situation than Sherlock and Sally were aware of. Sally walked away without another word and Sherlock's shoulders sagged. 

“You okay?” he looked at Sherlock who nodded once. “So what’s your plan for the rest of the day?”

“Mind-tracking,” Sherlock said and John wondered for a moment whether Sherlock was, after all, a part of a secret spy organisation.

“Sorry, what?”

“Mind-tracking. I’ve been down the track in different conditions and now I can filter that experience by adding all the variables and creating the best possible strategy. It’s a mental memorising technique,” he added after John just kept staring at him. 

“Is that how you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You memorize the track and then consider all possible scenarios in order to find the best one.”

“Yes, I just said that.”

“You are a proper genius, aren’t you?”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Sherlock got up and downed his tea standing up.

“Both,” John said and laughed when Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. 

“I need to be alone for this,” Sherlock said, the apology in his voice confusing John. Sherlock was at work, and he knew how to be the best driver possible. It was nonsensical to apologise for that. 

“I’ll see you around then,” John nodded and made his way back into the pit in order to check on the car, trying not to look back.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The motor showed no obvious signs of overuse and Mike was impressed with the overall results the tests disclosed. They’d build a second version of it in order to be on the safe side in case Sherlock crashed this one. Even the tyres would be used again tomorrow for the practice session, something which Jenson couldn’t claim for himself. Anderson was busy adjusting a few elements of the chassis while Jenson sat on a box and read a magazine.

“He doesn’t hate you,” John sat down next to Jenson. “He’s actually impressed.”

“He’s an alien. I’m serious. He scares me a little. How the hell does he pull off stunts like that?”

“What did he do this time? I didn’t see the whole practice session.”

“I just don’t stand a chance. I don’t know what you did to that car, but seriously, your work and his skill! I think he can actually win this and I’d not even be mad.”

“So you’re not upset with me for working for him and not you?”

“Lestrade told me that he’s single-handedly responsible for you even touching a race-car again, so I’m not going to complain. Of course I might have the long term benefits in mind,” he grinned.

“I just need to get back into feeling safe about this again,” John said quietly. “I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel confident enough to try.”

Jenson looked at John long and hard. “Then I don’t see why everyone seems to be so caught up about him working with us.”

John shrugged. “Comes with the territory I guess. He’s a prodigy and that’s bound to put some people off.”

“Not you, though,” Jenson looked away. “I’m really happy for you,” he said and John frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“You," he smiled into the distance, "feeling confident about working on cars again. It’s good to see you back.”

There was a moment of silence in which they both listened to the cars outside. “Have you tried driving again?” Jenson finally asked. John knew that he would eventually, but he wasn’t so sure what to answer. 

“Not yet.”

A couple of years ago he had occasionally met up with Jenson, David and Eddie to take on Silverstone with their own sports cars in winter when it was officially closed. They had been young and fearless and John remembered beating them all on a perfect December morning. It seemed a lifetime ago. 

“If he gets you to drive again, I will personally chip in to get him a permanent job on the team,” Jenson said, looking at John again. John let that notion sink in for a moment before he ruffled Jenson’s hair and stood up. 

“Thanks for that.”

“Anytime.”

“Sherlock’s going to be incredibly irritated when he learns that you’re on his side, too.”

Jenson chuckled. “I would be disappointed if he wasn’t.”

John went looking for Lestrade, who was on the phone in front of their trucks when he found him. He waited for a few minutes until his boss had finished his phone call before he sat down on a plastic chair next to him, putting his phone and notepad on the table. The driver’s camp was all fixed up now and catering would open in a few minutes to serve a late lunch. 

“Do you think we could keep him on the team?” he asked, unsure of what he wanted to hear. 

“I don’t know, John. It depends on so many factors. I’m taking on a huge risk letting him drive now, and he has to prove himself before I can even begin to consider it.”

John nodded. “Of course. But if he wins … I, erm, I sort of made a promise.”

“John. You can't just go and make promises like that.”

“He doesn’t have to drive races. He could help me downstairs and then test drive the results.”

“I don’t think he’d say yes, to be honest.”

“But, …”

“Please concentrate on the weekend. You can’t save him. Nobody can. God knows I tried.” Lestrade sounded somewhat bitter and John nodded and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the cool shade on this warm day. His phone rang but John ignored it for a second as it had no ascribed ring tone, guessing that it was probably his team mates ordering him back into the garage to clean up. Lestrade looked down on his screen and a frown appeared on his face. “It’s Sherlock,” he said and John felt a rush of blood to his head that left him dizzy. There was no name on the screen, only the picture, and John cursed himself for being so careless. 

John grabbed his phone, jumped up and walked away from his boss. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Bad time?”

“Yes. No. _No_.”

“I can call again later.”

“No,” John sighed and leaned against the back of a trailer, the sun shining on his hot face. He closed his eyes. “Sorry, go ahead.”

“I would like to change the nose,” Sherlock said. “Just make it slightly narrower. I cancelled out everything else and if the nose was an inch less wide, I think I could get an additional half second off a lap.”

“Okay. I can get you a new nose. No problem.”

“Sarcasm?”

“No.” John felt very tired all of the sudden. He had looked forward to this day so much and now everything was confusing and people were behaving in ways which he had not predicted. “Sorry, maybe it is a bad time.”

“Can I help?” Sherlock’s voice was very low, and he sounded as if he was trying to make sure that nobody overheard him.

“I don’t think so,” he confessed, knowing that in this moment, all he needed to feel infinitely better was a proper hug, preferably from Sherlock.

“Alright. Erm, I’ll see you later then?”

“Tomorrow, I guess.”

“If you …,” Sherlock started but then he stopped mid-sentence. “Tomorrow, yes. With a new nose.”

“I promise you can test it tomorrow.”

Sherlock hummed his approval and then, after a quick “bye,” hung up.

John started jogging back to the pits where he emptied a bottle of water and helped cleaning up, locking the pit after everyone was out to grab lunch.

He avoided Lestrade at lunch, and found himself walking a bit aimlessly, trying to feel anything but caught in the act of doing something wrong by having Sherlock’s sleeping face on his phone. He never really expected him to call, John tried to defend himself in his head. Had he really believed that he would call, he’d have just saved his name and number. But this, this seemed like Lestrade could only interpret it in a wrong way. John felt that his face turned red every time he thought about it, and he wanted to disappear, knowing that the moment Lestrade confronted him, he’d blush even more and feel entirely too caught up in something he had tried his best to avoid thinking about. “Fuck,” he kicked at gravel. 

He grew angry; angry with himself and with Sherlock for interfering with his life. Why did he have to come and complicate everything while making it seem that things were easy and safe and now they were everything but and John felt completely helpless. He called Mike, telling him that he didn't feel well and that he needed to go to Woking to work on the duplicate cars and a new nose. 

Mike didn’t make him explain, but John knew that he believed that he was having a panic attack. It was bound to happen after all. Mike promised to get him a driver and twenty minutes later John was in a car with a bag full of water and apples and a sinking feeling in his stomach as they moved away from the circuit.

He was glad not to have to talk to the driver, who seemed bored but not bored enough to involve John in trivial conversation. Once they reached the HQ, John thanked him and immediately made his way into the garage, changing into a long-sleeve shirt and cotton gloves and went to work with his appointed team. He hadn’t looked at his phone since he had gotten off it with Mike, but once he was on his way back to London by the same driver, he was too curious not to check for messages. 

He had received one text from Lestrade. “I don’t care. Just concentrate. We have to make this a good one.”

He exhaled shakily. John was incredibly glad that Jenson, who seemed strangely perceptive about his and Sherlock’s connection, had his back, and it was good to know that his boss wouldn’t be breathing down his neck for something which he could have easily laughed off but instead turned into an issue by reacting in the worst possible way. 

He slept fitfully that night, nerves keeping him on the edge of waking and he felt a bit sick when he woke up long before his alarm went off. He stared into darkness and felt distinctly lonely. He wondered whether whatever it was that he was feeling for Sherlock was a mix of overprotection and the long-time lack of a partner. His last serious relationship had fallen to pieces after his accident. He’d been too paranoid and depressed to be able to take care of himself, never mind anyone else. With Sherlock he had a feeling that they had started taking care of each other the minute they met.

John got up and made coffee, standing by the open window, feeling that it would be yet another hot day. He was scared, he realised. He was scared of what Sherlock had come to mean to him in less than a handful of days. He was scared because he had no idea what Sherlock felt, what he thought of him, even. He knew John wasn’t going to berate him for being a terrible person, but Sherlock didn’t know that John had learned a bit more about him than he probably should have. John needed to tell him today. He needed to tell him that he knew about Donovan’s brother and that he knew about the panic attacks. But what if he brought back memories Sherlock had successfully pushed away? What if, on the day when the media first stuck their heads in, Sherlock couldn’t perform because he was freaked out? 

John would have to wait. But what if he wouldn’t see Sherlock again after the weekend? What if he’d drive his race, get his bit of press and then disappear into an obscure life which only Lestrade seemed to be aware of somehow, at least from the side-lines. 

He exhaled slowly, noticing too late that strong coffee and jittery nerves didn’t go together too well. He sat down on his couch and opened his computer, finding an old race he could stream and he watched that until Mike came to pick him up. 

“We’re right off to Woking. The press conference is at eleven, we might just make it to see the session at two.”

“Mike, can I ask you a question?” John fiddled with his phone. Mike was the person who knew him best, he would understand. 

“Sure. Anything wrong?”

“Do you think I would have gone back to the garage without him showing up?”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

John nodded, trying to get comfortable in a seat that had taken him down to Woking for the better part of six months and in which he had never before felt uncomfortable.

“Possibly. But look at you. That car you built! You’re been on fire this week.”

John had not expected that response. He had been ready for Mike to confess that he found Sherlock strange and that he had noticed that John was distracted because of him. He had been ready to agree, too, which worried him. He had not expected Mike to grin his happy grin at him and say _that_.

“If I’d known he could do that I’d have made sure you two had met earlier. Are you worried about something? Have you had attacks again?” 

John nodded, trying to find the words to explain that it had been fine, and that Sherlock had helped him work things out. “Not too bad,” he managed, feeling his throat tighten.

“Don’t overdo it, okay? We’ve got the car now and you can take a step back. I’ll ask Lestrade to put Josh and Lukas on it for supervision and you can just relax and see how the weekend goes. Cheer him on. He’s already got one of the best cars we’ve had this season,” he laughed, a happy and slightly awed laugh, “hell, what am I saying, the best car we’ve had this season. If anything needs changing, you can have a look, but don’t get stuck in your head. You’re been holding up beautifully.”

John smiled, thankful for his friend’s words. Maybe he was really just getting stuck in his head. “Something stupid happened yesterday,” he started, feeling his ears burn. He would test the story on Mike first, because he would doubtlessly have to talk to Lestrade today. 

“How so?”

“The other day I found Sherlock asleep in my office. No idea how he managed to actually get in there, but he was asleep and I took a picture of him and saved it on my phone.”

“Do you think he’s going to sue?” Mike asked, sounding completely unimpressed by John’s story. 

“No, I hope not.” John chuckled and leaned back, very aware of the fact that Mike wanted to know what he was really on about as he had talked about the day before while John knew that Mike would ask the right question and then John wouldn’t be able to tell him anything but the truth, and he didn’t know what the truth was, so he simply shut up and left it as it was. 

Twenty minutes later Mike left the motorway and took the exit for the HQ and John felt that he would explode if he didn’t tell him. “I saved the picture as his caller ID and Lestrade saw it when Sherlock called me. And I behaved like a complete idiot about it.”

Mike was quiet until he had parked the car. Then he turned to John. “I, too, would be a bit smitten with someone who managed to get me back on the horse I fell off a year ago,” he then said. “Even if it was a socially awkward loner who is known for breaking everything he touches. Nothing to be ashamed of.” And with that he tossed John the keys and got out, leaving him to chew on that one. 

He still felt confused, despite Mike’s kind words. Lestrade had also more or less told him that he didn’t care about what was going on as long as everyone did their job. But the breaking part was which put John’s teeth on edge. Sherlock Holmes was known to break everything he touched. John felt the phantom pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his chest and he felt ready to cry. 

He took his time getting out of the car and locking it before he found Mike in the storage rooms and returned his keys. “I want to stay here today,” he said. “I’ll supervise the construction of the other cars. I can’t let him drive in a car that I didn’t watch being put together.”

“Should we ask him to come down?”

“Only if he can spare the time. Don’t put him under pressure. I think he’s more nervous about this than he lets on.” 

John spent the next hour with the double being built. More mechanics meant that the motor and gear box were put together much quicker than the first one he had built from scratch. 

He also received the newly made nose which was slightly slimmer than Kevin’s and two noses were being sent up to the track for Sherlock to test while John coaxed the new motor into life for the first data-test. The results were positive throughout and quite a lot of his colleagues cheered for John when he left to go to the press conference. 

Lestrade was already in the room with Anderson and Donovan sitting on each of his sides. “Alright?” he asked Anderson, feeling undisguised tension coming from his colleague. “If you want to, I can have a look at the gear box later. Jenson asked me on Tuesday and I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Anderson turned to him, his eyebrows drawn together. “No, thank you. I built a car that can win and I don’t need you to act as if you’ve invented the wheel just because you were lucky once.”

John lifted his hands in mock surrender and turned away from the grumpy mechanic. He knew he should be upset, but he chalked it up to Anderson being jealous of the fantastic car he had built. “Twice,” he whispered. “The other motor works just as well.”

Anderson gave him a look that told John to shut up if he wanted to remain at the table and John decided to not push it. 

The press conference went by rather quickly. Lestrade explained their predicament and introduced Sherlock in absence as an experienced driver who had worked under his supervision for a few years. Anderson and Donovan exchanged a very telling look. Then Lestrade talked about the issues of the tyres and that steps had been taken to ensure that nothing similar to last year's disastrous events would occur, and finally he turned to John and explained with a grin that he had been demoted to building cars with his hands instead of computers. That brought on a few chuckles and a short round of applause. They talked a bit more about sponsorship, about keeping their drivers under contract for the next season and finally they ended the conference by saying that they felt very confident about this weekend, expressing best wishes to Kevin Magnussen and Stoffel Vandoorne and hopes for their speedy recovery and return to work. 

John walked away as soon as he was released. He did not quite manage to sneak out as he was stopped by a reporter and asked about his accident. Before John could start to explain that he’d rather not talk about the past, Lestrade came up behind him and asked him for a word. John excused himself and followed his boss outside. “Thank you,” John said, hoping that the conversation they were about to have wouldn’t become more awkward than the interview could have potentially been.

“Everything going well downstairs?” Lestrade asked, unlocking his office and ushering John inside. 

“Yes, I just tested the motor and it sounds amazing.”

Lestrade sat down on his swivel chair, watching John from below while John was distinctly aware of the fact that Lestrade was still looking down on him. “You’ve changed.”

“No shit,” John answered under his breath before he could bite his tongue.

“Don’t get sassy with me, John Watson,” Lestrade looked positively gleeful. “I’ll see what I can do for him, alright?”

John took a moment to realise that he was talking about Sherlock. Then he felt the tips of his ears getting hot. He hated how relieved he was. “As you said, he’ll probably decline.”

“Worth a try, though.”

“Thank you.”

“If it means that you are back in the grease doing your magic then I’ll gladly try to keep your muse close to the stable.”

“Piss off,” John grinned, but he felt himself relax for the first time since he had learned about Sherlock’s past the day before. 

Lestrade chuckled and then motioned for him to leave him alone. “Off with you. You’ve got some cars to build or something.”

John left the office grinning and he smiled widely at his colleagues when he passed them in the hallway. This week had been an emotional rollercoaster and right now John felt as if he was free falling. He spent the rest of the day chatting away with his team mates, putting together a second car John knew could win the race if Sherlock sat behind its wheel.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

John buried himself in work. He texted Sherlock to say good luck and that he’d be down in Woking for the day. Five minutes after the text he sent another, asking if he wanted to meet up that night in London.

His phone chimed repeatedly. The results of the free practice session were in and Sherlock had done well, remaining close to the top three times. John hadn’t stopped smiling since then. He was fairly sure that Sherlock had done it on purpose. He’d driven two rather slow and one very quick lap and that was all he needed to show that he could fight. But John was sure that tomorrow’s qualifying would blow everyone away.

John checked his phone and found a message from Sherlock among many others congratulating him on the car. He skipped forward to read Sherlock’s text. “Well done,” was all it said. John frowned and walked outside to call Sherlock. He had had enough time to respond to his second text but John didn’t find an answer on his phone. The phone rang a few times before Sherlock answered. “Hey.”

“Hello, John.”

“Did you … of course you did. You don’t want to get together tonight? Talk over the results?”

The silence on the other end was nerve-wracking. “I’d like to, John,” Sherlock eventually said, but John knew he wasn’t done speaking. “Tonight’s not a good night.”

“Okay,” he tried not to sound too disappointed. 

“Will I see you at the circuit tomorrow?”

John smiled and nodded before he realised that Sherlock couldn’t see him. He smacked his own forehead with a laugh. “Of course I’ll be there. They are taking the other car up tonight, so I should be done down here by the time I go home.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Have a good night, Sherlock. I’m,” he exhaled, feeling quite silly again all of the sudden, saying it to a grown man. “I’m so proud of you. Well done.”

“Good night, John.” 

There was a second of silence and John waited until he was sure that Sherlock had hung up before he did. He looked around and caught his own reflection in a glass door. His grin was much happier than he could possibly justify, even with the results of the day and whatnot.

“Idiot,” he spoke to himself and went back into the garage, watching as the additional car was taken into an adjacent room to be painted. Sherlock’s black helmet stood out he realised as he stood in the hallway. Both the skull and the black helmet fit into McLaren’s colour scheme, but he felt that the new helmet represented Sherlock better. The dark head of curls made his eyes stand out; the helmet would do the same. John knew he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from looking for pictures and videos of the day. The press would have already noticed that he was special and probably tried to interview him. He imagined Sherlock simply walking away from that request and he felt a bit sad that he hadn’t been there to see it happen.

“You look chipper?” Josh came to stand next to him when John watched the car being prepared to be taken away. 

“It feels good to have built something again, and not just in theory,” John said, nodding. “Sorry about yesterday,” he then added. “It’s just that he gets a lot of shit from people and I don’t think he deserves that.” 

“Yeah,” Josh said, his hands buried in his overall's pockets. “It just seems a natural reaction he triggers in most of us.”

“You talked about him with the guys?”

“Course we did. But you seem somehow immune to … whatever it is that he projects.”

“He projects?”

“Yeah, it’s something really strange, and you seem to not have noticed, so maybe you’re just a less prejudiced man than I am. But he seems almost hostile and makes no attemps to fit in. It's like he doesn't even want to be here.”

John thought about that for a moment. “No, I see what you mean,” he eventually conceded. “He’s not good with people. Most people, anyway.”

“Right,” Josh seemed quite interested in changing the topic. “It’s great that you are down here again and not just holing up in your office.”

“Thanks,” John smiled and squeezed his shoulder. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow on the track. Time to get our hands dirty,” Josh laughed and walked away. 

“Right then,” John straightened his shoulders and walked away as soon as the car had disappeared in the truck. He’d run through the data again and see if he really had managed to build an engine which he had wanted to build for months. And now he had built it and it was the best thing John had ever created, he was sure of that. For months he had dreamed of doing what he had done two days ago with Sherlock. He didn’t think for a single second that he would ever have entered that garage without having him by his side. He thought of Mike’s words and decided to not worry about it so much. If he spent every moment that he wasn’t concentrating on the cars pondering why Sherlock was the first thing he thought of when he let his mind drift off he’d drive himself up the wall. 

Locking up the garage, John felt strangely calm. His work was done for the day and tomorrow he’d be mostly on standby, hoping that he wouldn’t have to readjust anything. He felt a bit sad that he hadn’t managed to help Jenson with his car, but Anderson’s hostility which had hit him squarely in the face after he had decided to work for Sherlock wasn’t something which he wanted to deal with at the moment.

John printed out what resembled a rough strategy for the race that he wanted to talk through with Sherlock and propose to the team after, and left his office before the sun had set. He would just try to get as much sleep as possible, knowing that race weekends were not very compatible with sleep, and went to look for Mike. He was just about to call John when he found him and together they drove up to London with the windows down and the radio on. John appreciated the calm of the moment, knowing that not only the qualifying and the race would tear at his nerves, but that Sherlock would distract him in some way or another. 

That night John dreamt of Sherlock and it wasn’t a good dream. He sat in the car, a feverish look in his eyes and once he put on his helmet, his head turned into a skull. The car seemed to drive on its own as Sherlock’s hands were not on the steering wheel and once out on the track, it accelerated and then crashed full force into the concrete wall of the stalls.

John was woken up by his own scream. He was sweating and his heartbeat threatened to deafen him. He had gripped the sheets so hard he had partly torn them and his brain replayed the last scene again and again. “Jesus,” John gasped, trying to calm down the noise in his head by speaking. He’d dreamt too often about his own accident, but never about anyone else crashing. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t calm down. He tried to tell himself that he was alright, and that Sherlock was alright and that breathing would be a really perfectly good idea at this moment. 

When he found that he couldn’t calm down and his breath came out in shorter and shorter gusts, he knew he was steering towards a proper panic attack. One of those that would leave him shaken and pale for the day and which meant that he’d be thrown back in his progress of working through the consequences of the accident. He found his phone in his hand without remembering to have picked it up from his night stand. His fingers moved automatically and he listened to the noise of the phone ringing as if it was the pnly thing that could help him. The quiet noise that announced that Sherlock had picked up almost made him cry. He tried to reign in his breathing, but didn’t quite manage.

“John?”

“Are you alright?” he managed, trying to not think off the moment his car flattened against the concrete wall. 

“John, what’s wrong. Calm down.”

“Are you alright, just tell me that you’re alright. You’re not hurt, are you?”

“John. I’m fine.”

“I dreamt that you …,” he couldn’t continue, feeling as if what he had seen might come true if he spoke about it. 

“John. Listen to me. I’m fine. Whatever you think happened was just a dream. You projected your fears and saw them play out, that’s all. Nothing happened to me. Your car is doing everything it should be doing. There were no problems at all. I’m fine. The car is fine. We're all ... fine.”

John sat on his bed, sheets drawn up to his chin, the phone pressed to his ear. All he heard was Sherlock’s voice. After a moment, he could breathe again. “You’re okay. You did not crash. Nothing happened. It was a dream." He inhaled deeply, feeling such profound relief flooding through him that he wanted to cry again. “I’ve had this dream before, but not with you. God, I’m sorry for waking you up, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to. Really.”

“Shut up,” John could hear him smile. “It’s alright. It was kind of you to make sure that I am, too.”

“Piss off,” John chuckled between tears. And when had he started crying anyway. He wiped at his face. “I’m sorry I am such a mess.”

“John.”

“No. I am. I really am. I’m sorry. Don’t let me keep you up. I’m fine now, I think.”

“Do you want me to come over?” Sherlock seemed hesitant to ask and John imagined Sherlock staying awake in his tiny flat because there wasn’t enough room to sleep, and Sherlock needed to sleep. The idea that he would offer Sherlock the bed and try to sleep sitting up on a chair or on the floor seemed likewise impractical. 

“No, I’m fine. Thanks. I think I’ll just hang up. Please forget about this. I didn’t mean to call you in the middle of the night.”

“It’s fine, John.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

“If you keep saying that I’ll never get to go back to sleep,” Sherlock smiled. 

“Sorry, yes. Sorry. I’m … erm. Good night.”

“No dreams, John,” Sherlock said quietly and hung up. 

John sat there for a while and stared into darkness. Well, this had been embarrassing. And yet, Sherlock had been incredibly calm. God, he probably thought that John was a complete mess, and he wouldn’t be wrong. And if feeling protective of Sherlock meant that he would start fearing for his life, it wouldn’t exactly he helpful for their working relationship.

He lay back down and closed his eyes, trying to picture Sherlock taking the specific turn he had missed in his dream without crashing. Just before he fell asleep, his phone chimed again and he found that Sherlock had sent him a photo of the skull helmet, with two large googly-eyes stuck to the visor, giving it a wholly ridiculous look. John chuckled, tears threatening to spill again and he finally fell asleep again. 

When he woke up he couldn’t remember dreaming of anything after his conversation with Sherlock. He picked up his phone and looked at the picture again. That was a side which he had never expected in Sherlock, and possibly it was just as hidden away as his nightmares and the tears which Sherlock had witnessed. He hoped he wouldn’t mention any of that today at the circuit. 

He needed to pull himself together and get doing.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

He’d take his own car to work, John decided. He wanted to be independent and able to leave whenever he wanted. His fingers itched to call Sherlock to see if he could give him a ride, but he figured that after last night’s events he’d rather not sit in a car with him for an hour. While he appreciated Sherlock’s wonderful reaction to his panic attack, he wasn’t keen on discussing the issue further, especially not on a day like this – not when he was fairly sure that Sherlock had gone through something similar in his past.

Just when he unlocked the car, his phone rang. John fished it out of his pocket and swallowed hard when he saw Sherlock’s picture on the screen.

“Morning.”

“Do you have a minute?”

John frowned and leaned against the car. “Sure.”

He could hear Sherlock inhale and exhale noisily, as if he was trying to say something but wasn’t quite sure how to say it. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m here.” John tried very hard to ignore the knot in his stomach that Sherlock’s few words had conjured up.

“In person.”

“Should I come and get you?”

“I’m already on my way to Silverstone.”

“Okay, I’m almost on my way. Should be there in an hour. What do you want to talk about.”

Another exhale and John started to worry in earnest. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m alright. Just nervous.”

“Of course you’re nervous. But I’m the one who gets to throw up, remember?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, I get to hold back your hair, I know.”

“You’ll be amazing,” John said, hoping that Sherlock’s nerves were the only reason for the call. He knew in his heart that there was more.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. Now I made you nervous, too. I’ll just …”

“No, don’t,” John interrupted him. “You answer the phone in the middle of the night because I have stupid nightmares and now you feel bad for talking to me about your fears? I’d be a rubbish friend if I let you go now.”

The silence on the other end made his heart beat faster. He noticed that his hands were sweaty, even though the sun was only just peeking over the roof tops. 

Sherlock cleared his throat, “okay.”

“Listen, Sherlock. I’ll be on my way in a minute and I’ll try to get there as fast as I can. And then we talk, okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Just tell me one thing, please. Is it something I did?” He needed to know before he got in the car. He needed to know so he could deal with whatever Sherlock had to say before he got behind the wheel and felt like an idiot. 

Sherlock sounded entirely surprised by John’s suggestion. “Did you do anything I should be concerned about?”

“Well, I called you in the middle of the night to cry into my phone.”

Sherlock chuckled and John thought that he sounded somewhat relieved. “No, nothing like that. There’s just a few things I need to tell you that I think you should know … about me.”

“Okay. I’m on my way. And don’t worry, alright? I know you’re the best driver I’ve seen in a long long time and you will drive beautifully.”

“Thank you for your confidence.”

John sighed deeply and then opened the door and sat down in the car. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Do I have to go on the parade with the other drivers tomorrow?”

John laughed. “Yes, you do. The fans want to see the drivers and you will stand there and wave and smile.”

“How tedious.”

“I can’t wait to watch you up there, with all the rest. They will wonder who you are and three hours later they will all know your name.”

Sherlock made a noise that John couldn’t define, but he did sound embarrassed. John giggled. “I have to go. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, so John hung up. It took him several minutes to clear his thoughts enough to realise that he had been scared that Sherlock would ask him to keep his distance, feeling that what John wanted from him was more than he was willing to give – whatever that was. He didn’t know what Sherlock would tell him; possibly he’d talk about Donovan’s brother, possibly about something else. But it seemed that he wasn’t about to tell John to keep his head down and stop being so stupidly smitten. 

He texted Mike, telling him that he was driving on his own and took off north. On the way he thought about the last couple of days. He hadn’t really spent any time with Sherlock in two days and in view of the uncertain future of their partnership it felt a bit too much like lost time. And today he’d be under pressure to get pole. John laughed out loud at the sheer insanity of the notion that it was a real possibility. He couldn’t remember a substitute driver doing that much better than the actual driver, but somehow he was confident that Sherlock and his car would actually manage to perform the miracle. 

When he arrived at the circuit it was already crawling with fans. The fields around the track had been turned into campgrounds and thousands of people had come to celebrate the race weekend. John saw the trucks for the Formula 3 and GP2 races taking up the northern part of the inner circuit while the Formula 1 trucks were parked closer to the parc fermé. The GP2 qualifying had already begun and the F3 qualifying was scheduled for 11 am, using the international pits while the GP2 cars were occupying the national pits to the north of the track. He parked his car behind Lestrade’s Vauxhall, grinning for the hundredth time at the fact that the boss of the McLaren F1 team drove a simple family car, even though he had been presented a proper company car on the day he took on the job, and went out to look for Sherlock.

He found him standing behind the drivers’ trailer, his fingers smoothing down a nicotine patch on his forearm. He was already wearing his overall, but let the top part hang loosely around his waist while he wore a white t-shirt and not yet his fireproofs. John shook his head and, before even saying a word of greeting, took hold of Sherlock’s wrist and removed the patch. Sherlock stared at him wide eyed. 

“You should never apply nicotine patches to the same body part when you renew them. They also don’t quite help when you stick them on your forearm.”

Sherlock kept staring. “Turn around.” Sherlock turned, slowly. John stood on his toes and pulled the t-shirt down a bit, reapplying the patch on his right shoulder blade. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock finally said and turned around again. John noted that this time Sherlock didn’t seem as shocked by his touch as he had before. But maybe that was because he was clearly distracted by something. 

“You okay? Not getting along with Jenson?”

“He’s being … nice.”

“He is nice.”

Sherlock made a face than made John grin. “You stand out here because Jenson was being nice to you?”

“He tried to chat with me.”

“Not your thing, chatting, is it?” John looked up at Sherlock whose face was set in something simultaneously resembling a grin and a frown. John noticed the noise level that surrounded them. Even here, where they were relatively sheltered, cheers, whistles and the sound of horns could be heard. “Have you been down in the pits?”

“Not yet.”

“You should go, come on. You should feel the energy.”

“Should I really?” Sherlock raised an eye brow and John nodded. 

“You definitely should. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

“Is it.” It wasn’t a question, but John wouldn’t let this cynic pretend to be above the thrill the audience gave him. During races everyone was concentrating too much to really pay attention, but the two hours before the race were everything anyone needed to get in the right mood to do their work well. The cheers and the noise of the running motors never failed to give John chills and he felt very giddy all of the sudden. He knew Sherlock still wanted to talk to him, but so far he hadn’t tried to stop him from talking. Instead of trying to convince Sherlock, he simply walked away, hoping that he’d follow him. 

John smiled when Sherlock’s shadow appeared under his feet and he entered the main building. They walked through several doors, turned left and then right again and ended up in what was a pit box occupied by Carlin, John’s former Formula 3 team. Noise hit them when they entered the box. John found Mark Owen talking to Jordan King in the left hand corner and walked over to say hello. Mark smiled widely and pulled John into a hug and then introduced Jordan and John. Once they said hello, John introduced Sherlock to them and Jordan looked a bit daunted. 

“Everything okay?” John asked, noting the young driver’s awe. 

“I saw him drive yesterday,” Jordan explained. He turned to Sherlock. “How do you take Luffield Corner going that bloody fast?”

Sherlock raised his chin a little and John had to suppress a smile. He could see in his eyes that he was ready to drown Jordan in an extensive explanation of the physics of his driving, but then he thought better of it and simply said, “I have a very good car.”

“Yeah,” Jordan nodded. “It’s fantastic! Good luck with the race tomorrow.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock said and smiled, though John wasn’t sure whether it was a genuine one. 

He turned to his former boss. “Mark, I promise not to touch anything. I just want to go out on the wall while you guys run. Is that okay?”

“Sure, but hurry. We’ll be out in ten minutes and then you’ll be stuck up there.”

Sherlock looked a little disconcerted by that remark and John pointedly didn’t look at him. “Thanks. Good luck!” He walked out of the box and quickly crossed the pit lane, climbing up on the wall between the lane and the track. Then he sat down at the as yet deserted McLaren control board, overlooking the track while being hidden from the audience by the sun cover above the screens. Sherlock sat down next to him, looking somewhat irritated. 

John wanted to apologise, but then he closed his eyes and listened to the noise around him. “Hear that? It’s going to be ten times as loud tomorrow.” He got goose bumps just thinking about the moment when the cars had completed the first round and stood in position, waiting for red lights out. He swallowed, hoping that Lestrade would allow him to be up on the wall during the race. He definitely didn’t want to be down in the pits during the pit stops, knowing that he’d get caught up with tyre changes and refuelling, thinking of the million things that could go wrong. 

Sherlock looked at him silently. “I am probably supposed to sit in a briefing of some sort right now.”

“Probably,” John answered with a shrug.

“You’ve changed,” Sherlock said, neither accusing nor praising. 

“You’re rubbing off on me.”

Sherlock huffed and looked away, scanning the stands across the track. John pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade, telling him to text in case they were needed, explaining that Sherlock had expressed his wish to talk about something, and that he’d rather not be disturbed. He knew he was pushing his boss’s patience and leniency, but he felt that this was the only place where Sherlock could be sure not to be interrupted for a while.

“You wanted to talk,” John offered, turning towards Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before he sniffed and exhaled slowly. Behind them the Formula 3 cars left the pit boxes. The concrete beneath them vibrated. “There’s a reason why people hate me.”

John bit his tongue, not wanting to tell Sherlock that he knew. He hoped that Lestrade wouldn’t tell Sherlock that he had told John. “I’ve done some things in my past that I am not proud of.”

He fiddled with the fabric of his loose hanging overall. “I’ve made some mistakes. Most of them were of no consequence, but some resulted in rather unfortunate events.”

John listened without commenting, waiting for Sherlock to say what he needed to say. 

“I tend to ignore others when I act. I don’t pay attention to what they do. I concentrate on what I do and when I do that I occasionally misread the signs and once I start noticing that everyone has already changed direction it’s usually too late to follow, so I go my own way, no matter whether anyone else approves or disapproves.” He stopped fiddling and instead folded his hands in his lap, looking almost scared. “I’m sorry that I made you commit to something that was such a challenge to you and then just left.”

John didn’t know what to say and Sherlock seemed a bit stuck with his apology, obviously not used to saying sorry at all. “What do you mean?”

“I know how difficult it is for you to face your past and to keep going. I …” he chewed on his lower lip. “I …”

“Sherlock,” John spoke quietly, almost drowned out by the noise surrounding them, leaning closer to him. “You’ve helped me immensely. I understand that you need to be alone to prepare for this,” he pointed at the track. “You’ve done so much for me already.” John wanted to tell him that he’d been miserable, stuck in a mediocre life of doing the second best job he could imagine and feeling held back by his crippling fear, and that now he felt as if he could breathe freely again for the first time since his accident, and he knew it sounded terrible even in his own head, but Sherlock was single-handedly responsible for his happiness. “Don’t apologise,” was all he said. “Not for that.”

Sherlock looked as if he wasn’t done talking, but he didn’t say another word for a long time. They watched the cars shoot past them and John noted in the back of his mind that his old team did quite well. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he finally said, noticing Sherlock going tense. 

“I know. Lestrade mentioned that he told you.”

“Oh,” John frowned, feeling somewhat embarrassed on Sherlock’s behalf. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’d rather hoped that it wouldn’t come up.”

“So you don’t want to talk about that?”

Sherlock shook his head. Another few minutes of silence in the midst of a hurricane of noise followed. 

“I have this under control,” Sherlock finally said. “I’ve analysed the data again and again and I know what the parameters are. I won’t make a mistake.” John noticed that he was speaking more to himself than to John. He swallowed hard.

“I have absolute faith in you, but you know that. You know that, right?” He looked at Sherlock until he looked him in the eyes and nodded. “Good.”

They silently watched the cars fly past them and John wished that he could get Sherlock to relax. “You didn’t leave me, you know?”

“But you built the other car without me being there and you wanted me to be there.”

John wasn’t sure whether he should be moved or worried by Sherlock’s perception. Something nagged at the back of John’s mind, but when he tried to concentrate on it, it slipped away. “Thanks for the picture,” John said at length, smiling at the memory. “That helped a lot.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look at John. John reached out and gently bumped Sherlock’s shoulder with his fist, finally getting Sherlock’s attention. “It’ll be alright, you hear? You just do your thing and show everyone that Sherlock Holmes can bloody well drive like no one they’ve seen before.”

“Thank you, John.”

The cars had left the track and results came in, announcing that Jordan King would lead the pack at tomorrow’s race. John smiled, feeling entirely convinced that Sherlock would shock every single person at the circuit. “Come on, we’ve got to get you ready.” 

Being allowed to cross the pit lane again, John passed by Jordan’s box and congratulated him before taking Sherlock back to the motorhomes.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Silverstone came and went. I decided not to refer to this year's race, since I have almost finished the race chapter. 
> 
> I apologise for the shortness of this chapter. I'm also adding a race track image to this chapter, so those who are not familiar with Silverstone can have a look at the turns :)
> 
> And thanks again for your comments!! They are very much appreciated!

**Chapter Sixteen**

John left Sherlock with Lestrade and his proposed strategy and made his way into the temporary garage. Sherlock had been exceptionally careful with the car, he found. Apart from the tyres, which would be changed before the qualifying, the results for the gear box and the motor showed that both could easily survive the qualifying and the even race, if Sherlock kept up the good work. His colleagues rolled out the car and brought it over to the pits. 

John sat quietly in the shade of the truck, looking at the substitute car, feeling nowhere as proud of it as of the one he and Sherlock had put together. He remembered the exhaustion he had felt and the satisfaction at seeing that even Sherlock showed signs of exhaustion after that day. He hoped that there would be many more days like that in their future. He sighed loudly just when Anderson entered the garage. He frowned but then seemed to understand that the sigh had not been a reaction to his appearance. “Congratulations,” he said, sounding as if he’d rather not be impressed but couldn’t help it. 

“Listen, Philip,” John started, but he was interrupted. 

“I’m sorry I behaved that way. It’s just that … it’s Sherlock Holmes. There are just some things about him … I couldn’t stay objective.”

“Everyone seems to have heard stories about him. How come I hadn’t even heard his name before and you lot are all up in arms before he’s even said hello.”

“Maybe he’s grown up. When he was younger he drove like the devil himself. He didn’t care for other drivers, nor for the cars he was driving.”

“And that made you hate him? All of you? Because he didn’t care for the cars he was driving everyone hates him?”

“Before you came to work with us, he’d had a stint at Woking.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, only a couple of millions down the drain.”

John sighed. “Let any given driver not concentrate for a second and put the car into a crash barrier and you’re there, too.”

“Well, he did it on purpose. Lestrade had asked him to come. He wanted to give him a chance after he’d seen him drive. Asked him to test a couple of cars. They fought about something and on the day of the tests he got into a car, drove two laps and put it right into the other two which were parked at the finish line. Had the nerve to complain about construction failures and wasted time.” Anderson was angry now and John regretted asking him. 

“Did you ask him what he meant?”

“He walked away. I, for my part, had hoped to have seen the last of him.”

“So none of you talked to him about this.”

“You don’t understand. There was no way to talk to him. Lestrade tried. He really did.”

John rubbed his face. “When was this?”

“Six, seven years ago.”

“So after …” he stopped talking, unsure whether Anderson knew about Sally’s brother. “Never mind.”

Suddenly it seemed important to talk to Sherlock again. Sherlock had been nervous and he had tried to tell him, but he hadn’t, because John had taken him to a positive place and he had manipulated him into not talking about his fears and John only realised now that Sherlock was probably terrified of losing it on the track. If he felt responsible for the crash with Sally’s brother and Lestrade had brought him in once to show that he believed in him and he’d crashed again, reliving the experience of being invited to drive must have put immense pressure on Sherlock. John was more than certain that Sherlock had not purposefully run into the other cars on the test track. Something had gone wrong, and nobody had believed him. 

And he had asked John, who hadn’t heard of Sherlock before, and whom he identified as an able mechanic, to build him a car that he could trust, because if he were to drive a race like this, he needed to trust the car. That’s why he drove so carefully. He had been there when this particular car had been built, but not the other two. In the way he had treated this special car, he was sure that he could trust it, so he made it last. That was what had rung strange in John’s ears earlier when Sherlock had insisted that he was sorry for not being there when the other car was built. “Sorry,” John stood. “I have to go.”

He walked around the trailer park, finding the drivers’ trailer deserted. Checking his watch he cursed. The qualifying session would start in twenty minutes. Sherlock would already be in the pit. He started jogging towards the main building, dodging a camera team that caught sight of him and asked for an interview. He found Sherlock in the corridor that led to the pit. He wore his overall and was just about to pull on his balaclava. 

“Sherlock!” John ran down the hallway until he came to stand in front of him, panting. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

Sherlock frowned at him. “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” John tried to catch his breath and he knew time was running out. Sherlock would have to be in the car in a minute or two. “I just realised. God, I’m an idiot.” He didn’t know what else to do, so he pulled Sherlock into a hug. He felt him grow tense and for a long moment he stood too tall for John to properly hug him, but then he relaxed and dropped his shoulders and John pulled him in tighter. “I don’t care about what happened. I really don’t. Don’t think about it when you’re out there. Just do what you do best and show them how absolutely brilliant you are!”

John pulled back and smiled at Sherlock, hoping that he’d not made it all worse. Sherlock’s face was flushed and he blinked rapidly. He cleared his throat and then inhaled deeply. John knew he’d disappear in a minute, so he placed his left index finger firmly on Sherlock’s sternum and looked him straight in the eye. “I know this sounds absolutely ridiculous, but you made everything so much better, I cannot even begin tell you just how much. I’ll never be able to do for you what you did for me, but I built you a car that won’t fail you. And I could only build it because you made me. So go out there and just show them that your name is written all over that track.” 

Sherlock nodded and pulled on his balaclava, forcing the curls out of his face. Then he put on the helmet and John had to grin at the memory of the photo Sherlock had sent him. “Go.” He pushed him through the door and into the pit where the car was waiting for him. 

John watched as Sherlock climbed into the car. There he sat, unmoving, and John stood back to watch the screen. They showed Kimi’s preparations, Felipe as he joked with a mechanic before getting into the car, Nico, looking concentrated and ready to tackle the track with the same mind-set that had made him stronger than everyone else this season. And then they showed Jenson, looking calm and put together. Anderson had shown up and was talking to him now. And then the cameras appeared in front of Sherlock’s car and John’s heart gave a start when icy blue eyes found the lens. John found it impossible to tell what he was thinking in that moment, but he was sure that Sherlock didn’t appreciate the distraction. 

The pit lane was slowly cleared and John felt his heart in his throat. The drivers started in the order of the results of the last race. He watched Nico and Lewis get superb times. Kimi and Fernando also achieved exceptional times. John didn’t doubt that Sherlock would do well, and yet he felt his hands shake when Jenson left the box as the tenth driver. He followed his progress on the screen, cheering with the others when he managed to get a spectacular lap time. The flying lap wasn’t quite as brilliant, but it seemed that Jenson might actually have a chance to start from further up than he had in the first half of the season, judging by his time and those the other drivers who had been out so far had achieved. And then Sherlock left the box and John tried very hard to stay calm. 

He took the out-lap calmly, warming up his tyres just as John had told him to, though he probably knew exactly what he needed to do anyway, feeling the track and getting used to the noise of the fans. When he took the final turn, he accelerated and started off into his first timed lap, gaining a whole second on Jenson in the first sector. The second sector time showed that he kept his speed and he led the field by 1,68 seconds, making John grin widely. He knew that the strongest drivers would probably manage similar times, but this was Sherlock showing them that he was really bloody good. He finished his lap two whole seconds faster than Jenson and on top of the leading pack.

He returned to be box and John wanted to walk over and congratulate him, but when the cameras zoomed in on Sherlock’s face he could see that he was far away in his thoughts, so he let him be. It’d be another twenty minutes until he could go for the second lap, having to wait for everyone to go before starting in the reversed order of the first qualifying run. John anxiously watched the faster drivers start on their laps, but none of the other drivers managed to top Sherlock. The first session closed and applause erupted in the box. John finally turned away from the screen and walked over to Sherlock. Sherlock was following his advice and drank water from a straw. When he saw John, he smiled and John squeezed his shoulder. 

Nico was only 0,013 seconds behind Sherlock and John knew that the second session could change it all, but for now Sherlock was in pole position and that was a small miracle. They didn’t have much time to talk, but Sherlock kept his head turned in John’s direction, even though he didn’t look at him. When the second round started, John playfully knocked his knuckles against the side of Sherlock’s helmet and Sherlock’s hand shot up to slap his arm. John laughed and walked back to the screens again, watching as the drivers took to the track in the reversed order of the first qualifying session. Sherlock’s time meant that he’d go last and John felt his knees wobble as he watched driver after driver come back in, unable to crack Sherlock’s lap time. 

Eventually the top ten went out and Felipe managed to get incredibly close. Jenson also managed to almost hit Sherlock’s time and John felt very proud that he was putting up a proper fight. Fernando passed Sherlock’s time by a tenth of a second and John had to sit down. Sebastian almost got him but lost a second in the Vale. Kimi also came quite close but lost time in the final turn. Lewis took his lap spectacularly well and came out with a leading time, having gained another tenth of a second on Fernando’s time. Only Nico was left now, and John chewed on his lip, unable to look anywhere but the screen. Nico and then Sherlock and that would be it. 

Nico’s flying lap was flawless. John stared at the car which smoothly rounded the circuit as if he had done nothing else in his life. John was both incredibly impressed and resentful. Now it was Sherlock’s turn. John had to remind himself to breathe. He looked at Sherlock’s car when he drove out of the box and then back at the screen. Once more, Sherlock took the out-lap slowly, and then he sped up in the last sector, sliding through turn 17 and 18. Leaving the Arena, he pushed hard on Wellington Straight and managed to top Nico’s time by a quarter of a second. 

John’s teeth drew blood from his lip and he licked at it distractedly. Sherlock kept his time through Luffield Corner and all the way down Hangar Straight. He flew into the Vale and John closed his eyes, hearing a sudden uproar which made him open his eyes again and he saw Sherlock racing over the finish line. John was irritated by the sudden noise in the box. He turned around and then looked back at the screen and the top five times appeared, making him blink stupidly.

1\. Nico Rosberg: 1:40:44,361  
2\. Lewis Hamilton: 1:40:55,572  
3\. Fernando Alonso: 1:40:56,579  
4\. Sherlock Holmes: 1:41:14,581  
5\. Sebastian Vettel: 1:42:40,002  
6\. Felipe Massa: 1:42:49,234


	17. Chapter Seventeen

“What happened?” he asked, dumbfounded. Nobody paid attention to him, so he turned back to the screen and saw what had happened in a replay. Sherlock hit the brakes on his way into Club Corner a fraction of a second too late and the car drifted off track for a moment before he caught it and pushed down the pits straight and rushed over the finish line. His mistake cost him a second and pole position. 

John didn’t quite know what to feel. His initial reaction had been to question the results. They couldn’t possibly be right. Sherlock had absolutely done better than anyone else, he was sure of that. To see him lose control for the tiniest moment brought John back to the reality of the situation. It hadn’t been a huge mistake. He’d seen drivers get overly excited when they did well and then screw up a moment before finishing. And yet, it didn’t seem like something that would happen to Sherlock who had driven so perfectly.

Sherlock returned to the box after his in-lap and instead of applause he was greeted with frowns and question about what had happened. Sherlock climbed out of the car and walked immediately towards the back in long strides. John got up, wanting to talk to him, but Sherlock rushed right past him and out of the door. 

Knowing that something wasn’t right, John followed him, but even the few seconds it had taken him to decide to go after him had given Sherlock a head start and John couldn’t tell where he had disappeared to. He’d probably find him in his trailer, but he clearly hadn’t wanted to talk to him, so it might be better to let him cool off for a moment before confronting him. No, not confront. John didn’t really want to know what had gone wrong. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had been incredible and that the car was strong enough to easily push past Fernando and Lewis. Nico would be a harder nut to crack, but on the straights Sherlock’s car had clearly been faster, so there was definitely a realistic chance of him winning. And even if he didn’t win, he’d been incredible. The car was a game changer and Sherlock's skills were beautiful to watch. 

Jenson suddenly appeared in front of him and John snapped out of his thoughts. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I just don’t think he is. Something happened and I’m not sure what.”

Just in that moment, Anderson walked past him, sneering. “See, your wunderkind isn’t so perfect after all. I guess we can count our blessings that he didn’t put the car into the gravel trap.”

“Oh, piss off, Philip!” John was fed up with the constant nagging of his colleague, despite his apology earlier. He turned back to Jenson. “If he’s in the trailer, could you maybe tell him that he’s done really well?”

“He’ll be delighted, I’m sure,” Jenson mocked gently, but he knew that John was serious about it. “Of course I will. I was rather expecting him to tell me what a terrible driver I am, coming in eighth and all that.”

“You’ve done so well. The others were bloody strong, though.”

Jenson nodded, gave John’s arm a squeeze and walked away to get changed and get ready for the briefing. John knew that a few members of the teams would do autograph and meet and greet sessions and he was thankful that Lestrade had not suggested any of the extracurricular activities to Sherlock, knowing that fans might be disappointed to meet a driver who wasn’t famous at all and who was about to go on his first race that weekend without any kind of prior introduction. He was sure that Jenson would probably mingle anyway. Jackie Stewart was certain to visit later on and John knew that quite a few VIPs were scheduled to appear at the race. 

Instead of looking for Sherlock, he turned to the car, knowing that the mistake was probably caused by a break in concentration for some reason and not by a technical difficulty, but he would rather be safe than sorry. He started by checking the nose, the air-canals, the tyres and the exhaust. Nothing seemed wrong with it. Then he pulled out the steering wheel from where Sherlock had dropped it on his seat and found nothing externally wrong. Eventually he inhaled deeply and climbed into the car, finding that Sherlock’s legs were impossibly long in comparison to his. But everything inside the car seemed perfectly alright as well. 

He’d have to check the statistics of the last sector and see if it had been a gear shift or the brakes which weren’t working the way they should, but even as he sat there, ignoring how good it felt to sit in a formula car, he knew that it had been Sherlock’s mistake and not a mechanical defect. Josh suddenly appeared, grinning at John. “Look at you, all savy and ready to go. You look good in the car, mate!” He pulled out his phone and took a picture of John before he could protest. John gave him a vaguely annoyed look.

“That was pretty fantastic. Never mind that last hiccup. He’s fourth! I must admit that I didn’t think he could do it.”

John realised then how pathetic is was to feel disappointed by the result. His car had managed to carry Sherlock almost to the top and nothing terrible had happened. He felt a smile crawl into his face without his consent and Josh held out a hand to help him climb out. 

“Let’s get Mike and see if the computer caught anything,” John suggested, hoping that he could still somehow pin the mistake on the car and not Sherlock. He could understand that he had been upset, especially after their conversation earlier. Knowing that John knew about the incidents wouldn’t mean that Sherlock would easily handle a mistake that was, in fact, human error. 

The computer told John that Sherlock had hit the brakes too late. It had been a simple mistake, easily made and often seen during races. The car was entirely intact except for a few wear parts. He’d want Sherlock to be there when he exchanged those, but for that, he’d need to find him and make sure that he was okay. 

Instead of looking for him in his trailer, John wrote a text. “The car is alright. Well done, Sherlock. That was spectacular. Do you want to come back here to get her ready for tomorrow? I’ll be here.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and he didn’t show up. Slowly everyone started leaving the box. The Formula 3 race would start from the National Pits, so they wouldn’t have to clear the boxes during the night. The cars would be returned to the trucks and safeguarded, but John wanted to work on the car in the box. 

Mike brought him a cup of coffee and the check list for the changes John would make on the car. 

“Why was everyone so disappointed?” John asked his friend, sipping his coffee and hoping that Sherlock would show up eventually. “Nobody believed in him and then he does incredibly well and all he gets is criticism.”

Mike shrugged. “He did so well in the first half, getting expectations up and all. Fourth isn’t really ideal, is it?”

“Maybe not, but it’s absolutely incredible if you consider that this is the first time he’s participated in a qualifying session in a car that is pretty much brand new, beating Jenson by almost five seconds. I mean, the most we would usually expect of a first racer is a point or two. And that would already be optimistic.” Mike nodded and opened his mouth to answer when Lestrade came rushing into the box. 

He looked flustered and somewhat annoyed. “He’s left the circuit. Bloody hell, he just walked away. John, I need you to find him and get him back here.”

“What do you mean, he walked away.” 

“On foot. Apparently. Going South.”

“Jesus. I can’t leave the car. I can’t just …,” John grabbed his phone and dialled his number. Lestrade shook his head. “He’ll not answer.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he left his bloody phone and everything else in his locker, including his helmet.” He held up a bag which presumably held Sherlock’s possessions.

“What?” John was really worried now. “Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea.”

“And why should I be the one trying to find him?”

“Because you know him better than anyone else on the team, including me. He trusts you. I can’t say that a lot of other people can make that claim.”

John felt his ears burn, but he felt a bit sick as well. Why would Sherlock just walk away from all of this after he had done so well?

“What about the car?”

“Not a lot. Just a few bits and bobs. But I …,” Sherlock wouldn’t be there to watch him, so he wouldn’t work on the car. John understood that his choices were quite limited at that point. “I’ll do it. I’ll get him. But how am I supposed to bring him back? What if he refuses?”

“Convince him. He needs to be debriefed and he’s been neither weighed nor have they gotten blood and urine tests from him. If he doesn’t come back he won’t start tomorrow.” 

John nodded. “Right, that’ll do, I hope. Please take care of the car! Lock her up until I’m back.” Then he went to get changed and twenty minutes later he entered the motor way, the bag on the seat next to him, estimating that Sherlock could only be a couple of miles down along the road. He drove slowly, trying to spot a lone figure in a white overall. When he reached Stowe, he started cursing under his breath. He kept on going towards Buckingham and then parked the car outside of the town on the side of the road and fished Sherlock’s phone out of his bag. 

He felt strange going through Sherlock’s things, but his boss didn’t seem to have many qualms about that and maybe it would help him find out where Sherlock had disappeared to. The phone was locked and John was incredibly tempted to see if he could guess the right code, but then he switched off the phone again and put it back into the bag. 

He must have missed him somehow. Maybe Sherlock had tried not to be seen, walking further away from the road than he had guessed. John sat in his car in the afternoon sunshine and wondered how he had ended up here on a race Saturday, trying to find a driver who had decided to run away because he hadn’t paid attention for a split second and apparently considered it a huge failure. Sherlock was stronger than that. He wouldn’t mind that much. The man who had written his name on the track and who stuck googly-eyes on his helmet to cheer him up. Something was wrong with the picture and it wasn’t because he had come in fourth. 

John imagined driving all the way to London in order to find him and decided that while he was very willing to get him back to Silverstone so he could follow race protocol, he wouldn’t go to such lengths. Feeling more confused than he had during this entire week, he turned the car around and drove back north towards Silverstone.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

He found Sherlock just outside Dadford, walking south, a cigarette between his lips. He looked up when John stopped the car next to him and got out. He looked a bit pale and, strangely enough, scared. 

“Sherlock, for god’s sake, put that cigarette down.” John walked around the car and plucked it from his lips, dropped it to the tarmac and squashed it with his shoe. He knew that this action could potentially lead to him being tackled to the ground, but he doubted that Sherlock was like his sister Harriet in that way. Sherlock frowned, but John knew that he was hiding a rainbow of emotions behind that frown. His eyes spoke volumes. 

“You’re going to kill yourself.”

Sherlock’s lip curled into an almost cruel smirk and John wanted to punch him for it. “Why did you walk away? Why the hell do you apologise for walking away and then you do it again? There are rules, Sherlock, and Lestrade is angry, and if you don’t get into the car right this second you will be taken off tomorrow’s race and you will cost the team a whole lot of money and I’m fairly sure that you’ll not get another chance if you muck this up now.”

Sherlock stood very still, colour rising to his ears.

“And don’t just walk away like that. I need you here with me.” John wasn’t sure why he kept talking, but Sherlock still wasn’t moving and he didn’t know what options remained to get Sherlock back to Silverstone other than to physically force him into the car. 

Sherlock drew a shaky breath. “I can’t go in your car.”

“What?” John stared at him, wondering if Sherlock had simply lost his mind. 

“I’ll walk back.”

“You will bloody well not walk back. You get into the car or I’ll call your brother.”

“You don’t have his number.”

“I have your phone.”

Sherlock looked positively shocked, his hand flying to his sides as if looking for his phone in his pockets. Only then did he seem to realise that he was still in his race overall. “That’s why it was so easy to get a smoke off the man,” he said with a tiny voice, and John felt his heart break. 

“What happened, Sherlock?” He wanted to pull him into a hug, but he sensed that it wouldn’t be appreciated right now. 

Sherlock looked at him as if John might have the answer. Then he stepped around him and got into the car. John stood on the tarmac for a moment longer, wondering why Sherlock had fallen apart so completely. Then he rubbed his face, exhaled noisily and got into the driver’s seat.

He felt his knees shake when he sat down and tried his best to hide it from Sherlock. Only once they were on the way he managed to relax somewhat.

Suddenly Sherlock groaned and looked at him. “You don’t have the pin.” He held up his phone and John had to grin.

“Got you into the car anyway.”

Sherlock huffed, both annoyed and impressed and pocketed the phone. “I’m sorry, John.”

“What happened? You did so well. You’re fourth, and even if you don’t win tomorrow, you’ve shown them that you are a brilliant driver and you got me to trust myself again with cars. None of those things should cause you to lose your mind and make you want to walk all the way to London.”

“I was … not paying attention, really.”

“I noticed.”

“It’s complicated. I get like this sometimes …”

“I guessed as much.”

“Is Lestrade really that upset?”

“Oh, he’ll get loud, I’m sure. I suggest you don’t say anything snarky. I fear for his blood pressure.”

They reached the track and John looked at Sherlock, making sure that he was entirely conscious of where he was and why. He didn’t expect Sherlock to lose his mind, but he wasn’t really sure how to explain his little stint into the wilderness of Northamptonshire.

“Go and find him, okay? And then please come back and help me get the car ready for tomorrow? You wanted to help me, so help me. Don’t walk away. If you don’t want to talk about what happened then don’t, but please do what you came here to do.”

Sherlock nodded and for a moment he seemed to want to say something, but then he just cleared his throat and got out of the car. John watched him walk away. He texted Lestrade that he had brought him back and went to check on the car. Anderson was working on Jenson’s car, trying to fix a few issues Jenson had noticed while driving earlier. “You’re back?” he asked, looking up when John walked in.

“Of course,” John answered and shrugged, not really wanting to talk about Sherlock’s disappearance. 

He started cleaning Sherlock’s car, concentrating on every corner, curve and cut. He knew it was mostly to take his mind off other things and to keep his paranoia at bay, but it helped him calm down. He’d figure out what was wrong with Sherlock later. Sherlock was eccentric, there was no question about it, but that he’d disappear in his head and not notice what he was doing and where he was going didn’t seem like something Sherlock would normally do, even though he couldn’t really know, could he, having known him only for a handful of days? Something must have triggered that reaction, and John was sure that if Sherlock would just talk to him, he could help him figure out what it was. 

He heard foot steps behind him and Jenson’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “What did you do to him?” He didn’t sound upset.

“Huh?” John turned around, finding that Jenson was actually grinning.

“He’s been incredibly cordial. He apologised to Lestrade and the team and he’s actually talked to the press.”

“No!” John couldn’t imagine Sherlock doing that at all. 

“Yes! He even agreed to some photos being taken. Just this morning he kept going on about how he hated the media circus. Something you said must have changed his mind.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’m certain Lestrade will send you flowers and agree to a raise.”

John chuckled. “He’s full of surprises.”

“How have you been doing? The car looked amazing on screen. You’re created a real masterpiece.” He stroked the wing of the car. “I’m a bit envious, to be honest,” he spoke quietly, as not to draw Anderson’s attention. “If Sherlock decides that racing isn’t his thing, would you possibly consider building me a motor as well?”

“Once I trust myself enough, sure,” John smiled and grabbed a bottle of water. “Do you know if he’ll come down here anytime soon?”

“Once he’s done with the press, I guess.” Jenson turned to check on Anderson and his own car. “See you later, John.”

John nodded, hoping that Sherlock would hurry up so he could fix the car and then go home to mentally prepare for tomorrow’s race, preferably on Sherlock’s couch. Staring at the buzz outside, he thought back at their first meeting. The way Sherlock had looked at him, as if John was the only one he saw. There was something about the way Sherlock concentrated on things, something that was so arresting that he shouldn't be surprised to get a funny feeling when he looked at him, just as he shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock had managed to get lost in his thoughts so deeply that he had walked four miles down the road without really noticing.

But John still didn’t know what had occupied his mind so entirely that he had been blind and deaf to everything else. The moment he got out of the car, he’d been gone. 

Shade fell on his face and John looked up at Sherlock. He was showered and dressed, his hair still damp and pushed out of his face. He looked much older like this than he normally did, and impossibly gorgeous.

“Glad you came.” John got up and walked over to the car, waiting until Sherlock had had a look at his notes before he started to take the chassis apart. John narrated his way through the procedure and Sherlock watched, concentrated and silent. He ticked off the parts John replaced and only when John asked whether he had felt safe enough to overtake anyone without fearing to lose his grip he cleared his throat.

“Absolutely,” he said, looking a tiny bit sheepish. “The car is entirely compatible with my needs. The mistake was my fault.”

John nodded and smiled to himself when he screwed on the top layer of the chassis.

“Why are you smiling?” Sherlock looked up at John from under his eye lashes, as if he’d rather not ask but couldn’t help himself. 

“I’m just happy that the car and you go so well together. I’m really proud of what we’ve achieved. I think that even if you drop out after the first corner tomorrow, I would still be incredibly happy.”

“Despite all …” Sherlock started, but then his hands found a screw driver and he stared intently at it as if he had never seen anything like it before. John felt something in his stomach dissolve. For a moment he just watched Sherlock being shy before he noticed that the knot had been there since Sherlock had called him this morning, wanting to talk. 

“Because of all of that,” John said quietly, looking away when Sherlock stared at him.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best <3

“So,” John started after a long and exceedingly uncomfortable moment of silence. “Is there anything else you want me to have a look at?" He cleared his throat and walked around the car, hiding his face from Sherlock. "The tyre mixture seemed fine. We can switch to medium if it’s too warm tomorrow, but you’ll be faster on softs. Forecast says sun, but you never know. Think you can drive in rain?”

Sherlock made an amused sound and John nodded. “Thought so.”

“What’s the strategy you agreed on?” John busied himself running his hands along the car's flank. He loved this car. He loved it for what it meant to him and Sherlock. 

“We’ll decide tomorrow, but currently we are at one, possibly two, stops. I start half empty and go in a lap before whoever is leading goes in.”

John frowned and turned around. “And how are you going to know that?”

Sherlock grinned a Cheshire Cat grin. “I’ll know.”

“Should I be worried about legal consequences?” John ignored the warmth that settled in his chest at that grin. 

“I’ve studied the last two seasons of every driver. I know how heavy they start and how they react according to their choices of fuelling and tyres. Lestrade cleared me to demand a stop any time after lap fifteen.”

“So, the strategy is that there is no strategy. And do you ever sleep?”

Sherlock looked momentarily embarrassed. “It depends on the choices the other teams make.”

“What if you’re in front?”

“Same thing. I’ll go in before whoever is second goes. Or later. Can't say yet. ”

John just grinned at Sherlock, who grinned back with a gleam in his eyes. 

“Anything else?”

“What are you doing tonight?” John had to ask. He couldn’t let him go without asking.

“Sleeping,” Sherlock answered, putting stress on the ‘p’. “Why?”

“I just wondered if you …” John tried very hard not to sound like he was coming on to Sherlock. Drinks. It would just be drinks. Drinks and talk. Nothing else.

“Oh,” Sherlock seemed surprised. “I’m sorry. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

John cringed and hoped he didn’t look too disappointed. “No. I know. Sorry, forget I asked.”

“You didn’t ask, technically.” Sherlock’s lips twitched into an almost smile, yet his eyes looked sad.

“I know we should both get some proper sleep.” Why did he look sad? Was he disappointed in John for asking? It wasn't the first time Sherlock had turned him down, yet his reasons would be nothing but sensible at this point in the weekend.

“Without nightmares, I hope?” Sherlock stood up and John knew that he’d miss his presence the second he’d leave the truck. 

“That photo helped. Thanks again. And thanks for not making a fuss about it.”

Sherlock shook his head minutely. “Nothing to make a fuss about. You’ve been under severe pressure these past few days. It’s natural that you might try to work through that in your sleep.”

“I’d prefer to dream about you winning,” John answered, ignoring the voice in his head that told him that maybe not dreaming of Sherlock at all would be for the best. 

“If I win, it’s your victory, too,” Sherlock gave him a quick smile and turned to go. “My brother is picking me up, so don’t worry about getting me home.”

“Okay,” John sounded crestfallen and he dearly hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t notice. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Of course. Sleep well tonight, John.” He was almost out of the door when he turned around again. “And thank you for getting me earlier.”

John just nodded and watched him go. His emotions were running havoc and he was glad that he had finished the car before having this final conversation with Sherlock. He checked his watch and was surprised to find that it was already past eight. He should find Lestrade and get the clear to go home. He knew that his colleagues would probably work through the night, practicing the pit stops over and over again; going through the necessary motions and cheering each other on. Loud music was coming from the camping grounds and John was more than happy that his team wasn’t involved in any of the celebrations this weekend. Well, none except for one, a little voice in his mind supplied and John locked the car in with a grin on his face. If Sherlock won tomorrow’s race, he didn’t think things could get better after that. Sherlock had catapulted him into unforeseen heights and he knew that there was only one way to go from here, but right now they were flying and it was brilliant. 

Lestrade was chatting away with John’s colleagues, the uninhibited grin on his face speaking of celebratory drinks. They only ever drank post-race. This was new. “There you are, John,” he greeted him when he walked into the motorhome. “Come and sit down, you’ve done a brilliant job.” 

Jenson was chatting with Josh and Anderson, who seemed to have let go of his anger and smiled at something Josh said. 

“Thanks. The car’s quite good, isn’t it?” Laughter erupted and John felt several hands slap his shoulders. 

“You’re a bloody genius,” his boss nodded. “That car out there is the best thing I’ve seen in years. The gear box is magical.”

“No, it’s titanium,” John grinned and he was handed a drink out of nowhere. 

“You’re not driving tonight,” Lestrade said and pushed John into a seat. “Jackson is going to drive you home and pick you up tomorrow.”

“I actually wanted to turn in early today,” John tried, but he knew it was hopeless. The decision had been made for him, and whether he’d drink or not wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t let him work at all tonight, including driving himself home.

Mike showed up and smiled widely when he saw John sitting down amongst his team mates. Then his eyes flicked through the room and John caught a glimpse of a frown before he walked over and grabbed a beer, raising it to John. “To the man of the hour,” Lestrade stood, and suddenly they all stood and John felt his eyes sting and then his heart, because Sherlock wasn’t here with him, and he deserved the praise much more than John. 

They drank to him and John wiped his eyes and made a funny noise before he managed to get his vocal chords under control. “Thanks. But you should thank Mike, here,” he grabbed his arm and squeezed, “who’s suffered my endless nagging about being unable to work and knowing that I wanted to all this time.” Cheers erupted once more and Mike was on the receiving end of shoulder slaps. “And,” John swallowed hard, “Lestrade, who always let me do what I wanted and needed, most of the time anyway.” More cheers and laughter. “And Jenson and Kevin who always tried to get the best out of the cars I thought up for them and showing me that theory and practice are two very different things.” Jenson laughed and raised his beer to him. John wasn’t sure how he had ended up giving a speech, but now that he was, he needed to say it all. “And Sherlock. I owe him most.” John had feared an awkward silence, but Jenson wolf-whistled and Lestrade cheered loudly and soon the rest of the team joined in. John felt both elated and terrible because Sherlock wasn’t there to see the team cheering him on. 

Out of nowhere, Jenson jumped at him and pecked him on the lips before pulling him into a bear hug. “How is my favourite John Watson doing?” He grinned and ruffled John’s hair. 

John laughed and hugged him back. “You've had a few, eh? I'm not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Where’s the golden boy?”

“In bed, I hope.” John grabbed his drink from the counter. “I kind of wish he’d stayed. Would have loved for him to see you guys showing him some love.”

“Tell him tomorrow. It might give him an extra boost, though it seems like he doesn’t need it!” Jenson stole John’s drink and took a large sip before pressing the glass back in John’s hand. “I’m off, have a phone date with Jess before she gets on her plane. She’s coming back tomorrow!”

“Give her my best,” John smiled. Jenson’s girlfriend had been away in Asia for work for the past few weeks and John knew how excited he was to see her again.

“Sleep well, John!”

“Thanks. You, too!”

They hugged once more and John felt really rather happy to be where he was – the only thing missing to make him entirely content was Sherlock by his side. With a sigh he turned to talk to Mike, who was apparently digging out embarrassing stories from Lestrade’s past which had everyone laughing. 

It was dark when John left the track, comfortably tipsy and at peace. He was glad that he had been offered a driver and spent most of the ride home picturing a bright future with McLaren, including Sherlock as a free-lance test driver who had finally been accepted among the ranks of the formerly prejudiced mechanics and drivers. Once home, he texted Sherlock, happily wishing him a good night and good luck for the next day. He knew he would see him in the morning, but he felt like doing it right then. He took a long shower and sat down at his table, having decided to circumnavigate a semi-hangover by eating a sandwich and drinking two pints of water. He opened his laptop and searched for pages that had covered the qualifying session. It took him under thirty seconds to find a picture of Sherlock that took his breath away. He resisted the urge to download it and simply kept scrolling, ignoring the funny feeling that settled in his stomach when he looked at the photos. A whole series of pre-qualifying images appeared in the results. 

He looked mostly annoyed, his nose crinkled at the root, but the closer the images got to Sherlock leaving the box, the more concentrated he grew. Finally, moments before he took the car out on the track, what he saw of his face through his visor looked relaxed. His eyes were wide and soft, as if he was daydreaming, although John knew that it was him going through the track in his mind before his body followed. 

John looked at that particular photo for much longer than he could possibly find an excuse for and finally gave in and saved it to his hard drive. He finished the first pint of water when he found the interview Jenson had mentioned. Sherlock came across as strong and arrogant with his shoulders back and his chin raised and yet he looked out of place as he stood next to the well groomed reporter, still in his overall with his hair all over the place. John grinned as he clicked play. 

“And we are here with Sherlock Holmes, the surprise of the weekend, if I may say so. You have been chosen as a short-term substitute driver for McLaren. How does it feel to get such an opportunity?”

“Pleasant,” Sherlock answered and John could see how he forced himself not to roll his eyes at the question. “I’ve very much enjoyed this last week. It’s good to be able to test myself.”

“You’ve tested for McLaren before.”

“Yes.” Sherlock avoided looking into the camera John noticed. “I have been consulted on occasion. But to drive in a race is a welcome challenge.”

“We’ve seen you do spectacularly well this weekend. Does John Watson’s return have anything to do with the strength of your car? He’s been spotted in and out of the pit and the garage truck.”

John felt his heart in his throat when Sherlock finally looked into the camera. “He’s been extraordinary.”

“He’s back in the garage, then.”

Sherlock smirked. “You were there for the press conference.”

“Oh, come on, give us details.”

Sherlock shook his head. “His progress is of utmost importance to the team. I will not hinder it by talking about it to the press.” He pressed his lips shut and looked away, seemingly bored all of the sudden.

The reporter grinned and shook his head. “Seems like Sherlock Holmes refuses to say more on the topic, but we do hope that tomorrow’s race will be a bit of game-changer after the first half of the season. On that note we would like to wish Kevin Magnussen all the best. Thank you for talking to us, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock nodded and then fleetingly looked towards the camera again. 

John simply sat there for a moment. He had not expected the press to be really interested in his progress after months of radio silence. Lestrade and Sally Donovan had screened him from the media’s attention most of the time, and the few times he’d been interviewed, he had simply chatted about the virtual construction of the team’s cars or the team’s preferences of Coke over Pepsi and tea over coffee. He had expected to be asked about his return to manual labour after the weekend’s press conference, but he had never thought that they might ask Sherlock about him. And he had never expected Sherlock to talk about him like he had. 

John knew that Sherlock was probably already sleeping, but he couldn’t leave this clearly intended piece of communication with him uncommented. “Paving the way for me, are you? Lovely interview. Sorry, in case I woke you up.”

He grinned and finished his sandwich before getting ready for bed. He drank the second pint of water before curling up in his bed, the phone just inches away from his head. He hoped for an answer, even though he knew it would be better if Sherlock rested.

He lay in the dark, thinking of that last pre-qualifying photo of Sherlock. He looked very much like he belonged in the car he was sitting in John thought as he fell asleep.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up ;) thanks for reading and for leaving comments! Your comments always make my day!! <3

John was woken up by an unfamiliar feeling. He opened his eyes, noticing that he lay on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow. It took him a moment to acknowledge that his hips were pressing a morning erection against the mattress. That hadn't happened in a while. John grunted and slipped his left hand between his body and the bed, closing his eyes with a relieved sigh when he took hold of himself and squeezed carefully, running a thumb along his length. 

He enjoyed this blissful moment of not being awake enough to care, and yet being able to take care of the rather pressing matter at hand. He turned around, pushing the sheets away, pushing his underwear down to his calves to lazily stroke himself. He stretched, waking himself up further, and his yawn was interrupted by a small moan. He licked his lips and then wet his palm and moved faster, thinking for a moment that it had been way too long since a hand that wasn’t his own had touched him; or a mouth, for that matter. Sherlock’s, for example. Sherlock’s hand would be nice. He had such lovely hands, and that mouth…

John came with a surprised grunt. He blinked rapidly in the half-light of his bedroom, trying to calm his heartbeat and his breathing and his mind. “Jesus,” he finally said, followed by a resounding “fuck!”

That was unexpected. Or was it? John pulled off his shorts completely and wiped his hand and stomach. _Brilliant_ , he thought to himself. _How are you going to look him in the eye today?_ “Hey, mate, I thought of you this morning when I had a wank,” John spoke to his wardrobe, erupting into panicked giggles before he decided that he wouldn’t stay for a second longer in a bed in which he had just entertained such thoughts.

He took a quick, cold shower and hurriedly towelled himself off. God, this had so much potential to make the day incredibly awkward. Marvelling about Sherlock’s physique, thinking about his extraordinary features, being drawn in by those eyes; all of that could be easily explained away. Not so much a surprise orgasm that came with a particularly vivid image of Sherlock’s lips around his cock. 

He made himself tea and turned the radio on. Loud Eighties music filled his kitchen and he could finally think of something else. He washed the dishes that he had collected in his sink over the past three days, sorted out his mail and packed his bag. Once he was ready to go he noticed that he was still half an hour early. Lestrade wouldn’t send the driver around until half seven. 

He decided to leave his flat anyway and sat down on his duffle bag in front of his door step, enjoying the Sunday morning silence of London. He could hear birdsong, usually drowned out in the everlasting noise of cars, busses and people. John closed his eyes and enjoyed it all. He felt different today. Not as nervous as he had expected and not as jittery as he had felt those last few days. And he would manage to work with Sherlock despite his little unplanned adventure into his subconscious. Even if he fancied Sherlock, it didn’t mean that he would start behaving differently. He was professional and he would make sure that his and Sherlock's relationship would remain professional, even through an unexpected crush.

A crush, John shook his head and huffed out a laugh. “I’m not bloody sixteen.”

Maybe he should just tell Sherlock. Get it out of the way. God, no. It would be terrible. Everything would become awkward and they would start being careful around each other and he definitely did not want Sherlock to back away from him. His phone shook him out of his thoughts and he answered without looking at the screen. For a moment he prayed that it wasn’t Sherlock and he breathed a sigh of relief when he remembered that it could only be Mike by the ringtone he had saved on his phone for him.

“Morning, John.”

“Hey Mike.”

“Are you ready to rumble?”

John chuckled. “Yes, I am.”

“Good, we’re coming to pick you up in ten.”

“Who’s we?”

“I’m bringing Sherlock. His brother refused to take him after … I don’t know. He won’t really tell me what happened.”

“Okay,” John forced himself to sound normal. Normal, chipper and slightly manic. 

“Okay, see you soon.”

John buried his face in his hands, hoping that the blush that he felt creeping up his neck and into his face would disappear again before they arrived at his door step. 

He looked up when he heard the car stop a few feet away from him. Mike had his window open and waved at him with a happy smile. Sherlock sat in the back. 

“Don’t you want to sit in the front?” he asked instead of greeting Sherlock when he looked in through the open window. 

Sherlock watched him, his eyes flicking over his face as if he read every single thought John had had this morning like an open book. John tried very hard not let any of it affect him. “I’m fine,” Sherlock answered at length. 

“Okay.” John opened the trunk and dropped his bag into it, fishing a bottle of water from it before he closed it again. Once he had sat down, he held it out for Sherlock who took it wordlessly. 

“Sleep well?” Mike asked, and John grunted his answer, hoping to not challenge them to analyse that particular topic further. 

“They didn’t comment on the letter yet,” Sherlock piped up from the back seat and John couldn’t help but grin. 

“They will,” he answered, wondering what the press would say once they learned that the stain was not accidental. 

“Do I want to know what you two are talking about?” Mike asked, making John grin even wider. 

He hoped Mike thought that this conversation was about mail and not about Sherlock’s eccentricities. “I don’t think you do. Not yet anyway.”

They were quiet for most of the ride. John watched Sherlock through the wing mirror every now and then, catching glimpses of concentration on his face. John felt surprisingly calm, all things considered, and he patted Mike’s arm and smiled at him before he sat back and watched the landscape rush past them. It promised to be a clear and sunny day and John wanted it to be a good day for Sherlock’s sake. 

He began feeling properly excited when they started seeing large numbers of fans moving towards the circuit. It was still early and the GP2 and Formula 3 races would kick the race day off, followed by the drivers’ parade before the F1 race. But it was there, the feeling John usually got on a Sunday like this, only now it was much worse and simultaneously so much better. He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a moment to anchor himself to that feeling, needing it like oxygen. He lived for the rush, for the excitement, for the test of his skills, whether it was behind the wheel or in the box, watching his creation being tested. He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

When he opened his eyes again, the hand was gone, but Sherlock watched him through the mirror, the question in his eyes answered by John’s grateful smile. “I told you I’d be ready to throw up.”

Mike looked a bit worried. “I’d love some warning first, please.”

John laughed and turned towards Mike. “Not yet.”

Once they had reached and entered the circuit, things moved quickly. They all met for the general briefing, followed by a final discussion about the strategies for both drivers in a smaller group-briefing, and finally Sherlock and Jenson were sent to their trailer to change while the mechanics got changed in a different trailer. The entire time, the noise of the fans hung in the air like the buzz of bees on a hot summer’s day. John hadn’t stopped smiling since they had arrived. 

He checked the car over twice before it was taken into the pit box. They started warming the tyres and the motor up while the Formula 3 race was prepared for on the track. The GP2 race had finished by the time everyone was going into final preparations. John felt his phone vibrate. Sherlock’s sleeping form filled his screen. 

“Hey.”

“John?”

“You okay?”

“Yes, fine. I just, I thought that maybe we could … you said it was … the best feeling in the world?”

John smiled widely. “Do you want to go and watch the race from the pit?”

“If you are not busy? I don’t want to keep you from anything more important.”

“Sure, I mean, I’ll make time. Give me a minute, I’ll come and get you.” John felt elated, making his way through the chaos that was the pre-race driver’s camp and climbed into the McLaren motorhome. Sherlock stood up when he came in, rising a little too fast, upsetting the cup of tea that sat in front of him. Half of it spilled on the table and John rushed over to keep it from running into a stack of files. 

Sherlock produced a box of Kleenex out of nowhere while John used his hands to keep the liquid from spreading and after a minute of frantic wiping, the files were safe and the table dry again. Sherlock exhaled noisily and John looked up at him with a wide smile. “You’re really good at hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” Sherlock asked, frowning hard. 

John smirked and threw the wet ball of Kleenex in the general direction of the bin. The ball found its target. “I know you’re nervous. You’re human after all,” he said, shrugging at Sherlock’s slightly annoyed expression. “Come on, let’s go and listen to the sweet sound of motors and horns.”

Sherlock finished the rest of the tea he hadn’t spilled and followed him outside. “Walk next to me, will you?” John kept walking, but a moment later Sherlock appeared to his left. 

“Force of habit,” Sherlock explained.

“Following people around?”

“Walking alone.”

John sighed. “You’re not alone.”

“I know,” Sherlock gave John a small smile and John noticed how his heart sped up a bit. Now that was absolutely uncalled for. Having fantasies about Sherlock while being half asleep and clearly not yet responsible for his actions was one thing – having a physical reaction to something like a tiny private smile was an entirely different matter. He squinted at the morning sun, hoping that Sherlock couldn’t read his face. 

Once they reached the main building they chose to use the McLaren pit to enter the pit lane. They were met with some odd looks when they simply ignored the equipment and climbed up on the wall. The board was already plugged in and in a few hours Lestrade and the crew would keep track of the proceedings from up there.

The noise was greater than it had been during the qualifying session the day before, but John knew how much louder the crowd would get once the race started. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Close your eyes. Imagine it culminating into a noise that is so loud it becomes a part of you.”

Sherlock looked somewhat sceptical, but John decided to ignore that. He closed his eyes and imagined the feeling once the race started. The cars shaking the ground and the fans stirring the air – the energy of it all. He inhaled deeply, letting anticipation wash over him. He’d be too nervous to enjoy it all once the real thing happened, so he was grateful for the chance to do it now.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock who had apparently decided that maybe John’s idea wasn’t so silly after all. He stood tall, shoulders back, his chin lightly raised and his eyes closed, an almost blissful expression on his face. He exhaled and his posture became more natural, relaxed, almost, but still strong. 

Oh.

John felt his breath knocked out of him. Sherlock became the person who he had been when he had almost walked into him that morning in Sherlock’s flat. His face lost its lines, its concentration and focus. The way he stood there for John to see everything he was, to see his vulnerability and that part which John had wanted to see all week, awakened tenderness in John that he didn’t know he could feel for another human being. He almost reached out to touch Sherlock’s arm, or chest, anything. It was almost impossible for him to not step closer.

In that moment John realised that he wanted to show Sherlock how he felt. He wanted to make him understand that he would be there for him if he ever needed someone. That he’d return the favour of sending silly pictures in the middle of the night to make him forget his tears. A gasp escaped him and Sherlock’s eyes opened. Immediately the focus was back, but his face remained open and soft. “You might be right,” Sherlock simply said. John knew he referred to the feeling he had spoken of, but he very much wanted him to mean something else.

John swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “Sherlock, …”

“John?”

John stared at him. He was so close to doing something utterly stupid and he would never forgive himself if he chased Sherlock away now. If he told him now, or if he, god forbid, just stepped closer and pressed a kiss to those lips, he’d lose it all. This time it would be John who’d destroy, not Sherlock. And yet, he couldn’t imagine not telling him.

He pursed his lips and swallowed again. It was adrenaline. It was excitement and fear, and he felt like this about Sherlock because he had saved him when he had forgotten he needed saving and there was a rational explanation for this and if he only gave it time and got away from that noise that made his heart beat faster then maybe he could concentrate again and make decisions he could stand for, and for god’s sake not lose his mind because of a wet dream that was incredibly persistent. 

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” He turned around and exhaled slowly, feeling like a proper idiot. Sherlock was beyond perceptive and he would interpret this correctly, even if John wasn’t sure what exactly it was that was happening between him and Sherlock.

He felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder and John wanted nothing more than to do something about his need to be closer to Sherlock. He stared ahead and tried to ignore the thumb that was pressing lightly against his neck where it touched his skin above his collar. There were thousands of people potentially witnessing this scene and John knew that whatever was happening at this moment could not be something that was watched by the public. And why was his brain already pushing all of this into a direction he was very much interested in ignoring at the moment? He felt Sherlock’s hand press down harder for a moment before he took it away again. John hated himself for the empty feeling the absence of Sherlock’s hand left in his heart. He needed to tell him. 

Finally finding the courage to turn around and face him, he realised that he was alone. Sherlock had used the noise of the moment to disappear unheard and John gritted his teeth, feeling incredibly stupid. 

He sat down at the control board and stared into nothing. Maybe it was his nerves getting in the way of things. Maybe his body and soul were trying to cope with everything that had happened by focusing on Sherlock as the single truly positive entity in all the chaos. John raked a hand through his hair. Sherlock had taken over his mind and it was terrifying and fantastic at the same time – if he only knew how to sieve through the mass of emotions which the situation brought with it, he’d be able to be there for Sherlock as a friend and a professional in a way he wanted to be. But not this. He couldn’t be the person he was right now. It would distract Sherlock and it already distracted John. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he found a call to arms from Lestrade. With a final sweeping look across the stalls he climbed down the wall and returned to the pit.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your super lovely comments. I do appreciate every single one of them! I'm so happy to know that you guys enjoy it!  
> 

Controlled chaos reigned. Guests were arriving, interviews were given, energy drinks and water were handed out, suits were put on properly, equipment was tested and adjusted, and in the middle of the chaos stood Sherlock Holmes with a look of utter despair on his face. 

John saw only a glimpse of his face before he lost him again, but what he had seen worried him more than anything else that had happened this week. He pushed forward, avoiding being hit by a new nose for Jenson’s car and suddenly he found himself face to face with Lestrade. John stood on his toes in order to look over his boss’s shoulder, but Sherlock had disappeared. 

“There you are,” Lestrade smiled, handing John a print out of the final tests of the morning. “The driver’s parade will start in fifteen minutes. For the time being, I suggest you get some lunch and then come back here so you can breathe fire into the car.”

“You want me to start the motor?”

“Yes. I think you should be the one to do it.”

John felt his palms get sweaty and he tried very hard not to think of the possibility of having a panic attack in the middle of all this. “Only if you want to, of course,” Lestrade added after a moment. John’s face must have betrayed his thoughts. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

“Where is Sherlock?”

“I sent him out with Jenson. I think he was a bit overstimulated by all of this.”

“Good. Thanks.” John felt silly for thanking Lestrade on Sherlock’s behalf but there he was, doing exactly that. He also felt that he should apologise to Sherlock, even though he didn’t quite know what for. 

“He’s not exactly thrilled to go on the truck,” Lestrade grinned and John was sure he’d enjoy every second of Sherlock’s discomfort. “Go through these,” he indicated the list in John’s hands, “and check them all. Be back at half past one, and in the meantime try to relax.” He gave John a look that told him that Sherlock wasn't the only one he worried about.

John nodded and walked straight out of the box and into the drivers’ trailer. Jenson was in the process of styling his hair by wetting and tangling it a bit while Sherlock sat by the window, silently watching him. “Hey,” John grinned at Jenson, who winked at him through the mirror. “I’m sure that the last rows will appreciate the effort you put into your hair.” He walked up to him and ran his left hand through Jenson’s hair to mess it up. 

“You fucker.” Jenson turned around and flicked water at him. “You nervous?” he asked while John wiped his hand on a towel. John nodded and then turned to Sherlock, whose carefully blank face didn’t tell him at all what he was thinking at that moment. 

“Ready to face the fans?” he asked him, hoping that he wouldn’t disappear in his head again. “If you keep your face turned towards the sun you will squint so it’ll look like you’re smiling,” John added, relieved to see a tiny smile appear on Sherlock’s lips. “Come on. They’ll be looking for you in a minute.” He held out his right hand and Sherlock looked up at him, an eyebrow rising slowly. John just grinned and kept his hand where it was. Finally Sherlock took it and his long fingers curled around John’s smaller hand. 

For a second John forgot to breathe. He stared at their hands and distinctly remembered the first time Sherlock had shaken his. How a single week could change everything, he mused, and made the mistake of looking into Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock looked terrified; scared enough to make John pull back his hand instinctively. But Sherlock still held on, so he pulled harder until he stood. John’s breath hitched, and he was glad now that Sherlock was taller than he was, so he could stare at his chest instead of his face.

“It’ll be alright,” he said, trying to ignore that Sherlock had looked the opposite of who he had been one week ago. He didn’t seem confident or adventurous enough to take on a race track on his own without supervision, he didn’t seem to be happy to be where he was, and it made John want to run away with him. Race or no race, Sherlock shouldn’t be so scared. 

John couldn’t stop himself. He placed his left hand flat on Sherlock’s chest, just like he had done with him. If Sherlock knew that it would help John focus and let go of his fears, the same should work for him. Only when Sherlock squeezed his right hand lightly, he noticed that they hadn’t let go of each other. 

Instead of pulling away, he squeezed back. “You’ll be alright.”

“Of course he will,” Jenson appeared behind Sherlock and patted his shoulder. Sherlock dropped his hand, letting go of John. “Come on, champ, let’s go.”

Sherlock grimaced but let himself be pulled away from John and out of the trailer. John watched them go and then dropped down in the chair in which Sherlock had sat just moments ago. “Fuck,” he cursed quietly. His heart was hammering away and he knew that tonight would be extremely uncomfortable. The notion of comforting Sherlock quickly turned into something John would try his best to ignore for as long as he could. 

He rose and went to find the truck. Most of the drivers were already there and Sherlock had picked a spot in the right back corner of the truck, probably to make sure that he wouldn’t be visible to most of the fans. John reached up to touch his calf. He flinched but turned around when he saw that it was John. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Enjoy it. Remember? Best feeling in the world!”

Sherlock smirked, but when John smiled at him, it turned into a real smile. “I’ll do my best,” Sherlock said. Then he suddenly crouched down so he was closer to John. “Did Lestrade ask you to be in the pit before the race starts?”

John nodded, wondering how Sherlock knew. 

“You were nervous and your palm was clammy,” Sherlock answered John’s unasked question. 

“It doesn’t get any less creepy,” John grinned, but then he shrugged. “What do you think?”

“It’s up to you,” Sherlock said, sounding like he’d much rather tell John to stay as far away from the pit as he could. He wondered why that was.

“That’s not what you think.”

“Maybe it isn’t. But you should decide.” 

“I’ll do it with you?” John made it a question, hoping that Sherlock would understood.

Sherlock bit his lip and then slowly nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, John!” Felipe made his way through his fellow drivers and crouched down next to Sherlock. “You did such a good job with the car. It looks fantastic.”

“It has a fantastic driver,” John grinned and Felipe nodded, smiling at Sherlock who looked slightly embarrassed by it all. “I’m not going to go easy on you, Sherlock,” he said with a cocky smile. “But I am very excited to race you.”

Sherlock was going a bit red around his ears and John chuckled. Someone announced that the parade was about to move and John stepped back, watching the large truck slowly drive towards the track. Jenson came to stand next to Sherlock, gave Felipe a half-hug and Sherlock a light punch on the shoulder. Then he blew a kiss at John which John answered with a two-finger salute. 

The noise of the fans swelled as the truck entered the track and John jogged towards the pits to watch it on the screens. The drivers waved and grinned happily, some of them chatting with each other, some simply watching and enjoying the show, and then there was Sherlock, who stood with his eyes closed, leaning back against the rail. Jenson noticed at some point and forced his sunglasses on Sherlock. John laughed out loud at the look Jenson earned for his trouble, but once Sherlock’s eyes were covered by the sunglasses, he could at least pretend to watch the fans. He was probably miles away in his head again. 

He concentrated on the images and nothing else. The movement and noise in the pit had more structure now, more apparent purpose. Sherlock Holmes would drive a proper race in a car that he had built. As John watched the most awkward driver’s parade he had ever seen, he felt a deep calm settling in his bones, grounding him. This was going to happen and the car would not break down. Sherlock knew the car inside out. If anything would break, he would notice even the slightest unwanted tremor and take the car into the box. 

He exhaled slowly. This would be a good race. A fair one. A proper fight. No matter what his own team said, the other drivers seemed to respect Sherlock and appreciated the new challenge they found in him. It wasn’t John and Sherlock against the rest of the world after all and it felt unbelievably good to realise that. 

Josh came to stand next to him, watching his face as John watched the screen. “Doing alright?”

John turned to him and nodded. Then he rubbed his hands, noticing that his palms were dry. “It’s going to be good.”

“I hope so. We could use a win.”

“Yeah,” John chuckled. “Would be good for everyone on the team.”

“If we do, you’ll be the one going up there for the cup.”

“Nah, Lestrade is going to …”

“No. No, you will. We had a vote.”

“He’s not won, yet.”

“We’re optimists,” Josh grinned. 

“You’re crazy bastards. That’s what you are.”

“You love us.”

John laughed. “Piss off!”

The truck left the track and the noise at the circuit decreased minutely. John felt his heart in his throat, but it was excitement, not anxiousness that caused it. The drivers came into the pits and everyone made sure that everything was in place before grabbing a quick lunch. 

An hour later, John returned to the pit, having slowly eaten some curry. He had forced himself not to wolf it down and find Sherlock, who, unsurprisingly, hadn’t shown up for lunch. 

He found Sherlock sitting on the tyre of the car. 

“Did you eat?”

Sherlock nodded. John narrowed his eyes, trying to make Sherlock tell the truth, but he didn’t budge. “Drink?”

“Four pints, today. I finished the last one half an hour ago.”

“Good. Blood pressure?” Sherlock gave John a look that made him laugh out loud. “I, for one, am calm, though I don’t understand why,” John shrugged. 

“That’s … good. Isn’t it? I mean, that’s really good.” Sherlock got up and took a step towards John only to halt again. “I think I’ll … erm …”

“Hmm?” John wondered if it would be Sherlock after all, who’d be doing the throwing up. 

“I need to go to the bathroom.” Sherlock decided and walked away. John was very tempted to follow him and make sure that he’d return, but he told himself that he needed to trust Sherlock in this. A few minutes later he came back, a sheepish look on his face. “I’m not used to drinking that much,” he explained.

John simply nodded and turned away in order to prevent himself from saying something inappropriate, and ran his hand along the flank of the car like he had dozens of times since he had built the car. It calmed him down. “We should give her a name.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“How about …”

“No, John.” 

John looked at him for a long moment before he understood. “Oh. You have named her already.”

Sherlock nodded, once. John didn’t ask.

“It’s almost time. They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Thank you, John.”

“For what?”

“For being so patient with me.”

“Of course. No worries.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and looked away. Before John could try to start another conversation, the rest of the team arrived and the moment of truth edged closer. Sherlock closed his overall and got into the car and John hooked it up. Together they got the motor running and John exhaled slowly, enjoying the sound of it coming to life immensely. Sherlock was handed his ear-piece and the balaclava and he pulled it on. Twenty minutes to red lights out and John still felt calm. 

Jenson got into his car and his motor was turned on. The cars would leave the pit in a few minutes, getting ready for the warm up lap and then all eyes would be on Sherlock.

Someone handed Sherlock his helmet and John couldn’t help it. He crouched down next to Sherlock and grabbed his arm. “It doesn’t matter what happens from here on. The only thing that is important is that you don’t get hurt.”

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. John noticed how close they were, Sherlock’s face mere inches away from his. “The car is yours. I built it for you. If it falls apart by the end of it, it doesn’t matter. No testing this time. Just driving.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled on his helmet. He gave John one last look and then let down the visor. John stood up and stepped away. A handful of seconds later Sherlock left the pit box.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

A few minutes later, the cars sat on the track, ready for the warm-up lap. John climbed up on the wall and joined Lestrade, Josh and two further members of the team at the control board and was handed headphones. His boss told him that he would be allowed to communicate with Sherlock if he wanted to. 

The track was cleared and everything grew quiet for a moment. John exhaled noisily and looked at Lestrade who winked and smiled at him. Then the lights signalled the okay for the warm-up lap and the cars left the Pits Straight, going north. The screen showed the progress of the cars with Nico leading the pack, driving slowly and fishtailing to get the tyres to the right temperature. Sherlock was less predictable in his warm up. John could see that he accelerated and slowed down several times, letting Fernando drive ahead quite a bit and using the space he created for himself in front of Sebastian. John knew that Sebastian was probably irritated by Sherlock’s erratic movement in front of him, but he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

The screen showed the helicopter perspective for a few moments, zooming out to show the whole track and John had to laugh out loud. Despite the training and qualifying sessions and the races earlier that day, the S was still slightly visible on the track. Lestrade looked at John and then back at the screen and when John chanced to steal a glance at his boss’s face he knew that he could tell what it was that he was seeing. 

Lestrade pushed the button to talk to Sherlock via radio. “Sherlock. I’m never going to let you test a track again without supervision.”

Silence.

“Helicopter just showed the track. Nice of you to follow your animalistic instinct to leave your mark on it.”

There was something akin to a chuckle on the other end. “I wasn’t technically unsupervised,” Sherlock answered and John burst out laughing. 

“Better own it, then,” Lestrade grinned and John had to bite his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. 

“Over,” Sherlock simply said and Lestrade closed the line. 

Nico’s car came around the corner and the noise around them increased to a deafening level. It was a matter of seconds now before the race would start and John wanted nothing more than to see Sherlock overtake Fernando in the first corner. Slowly, the cars took up positions. John felt as if the noise rose and fell with his heartbeat. He had pushed his headphones from his ears, for once able to hear it all without being stuck in the back of the pit or behind a computer screen inside the building. He imagined Sherlock in the car, entirely focused on what lay ahead, as he had been in the simulator. 

The engines howled, anticipating the start of the race. When the red lights started coming on, John held his breath. Endless seconds ticked by while he stared at the screen, unable to look at the cars to his feet. He knew he’d lose his cool if he looked down now, so he kept his eyes trained on Sherlock’s black helmet on the small screen rather than the real thing. The fifth red light came on, completing the countdown and then the world stood still for a millisecond. 

John gasped when the red lights went out and Nico’s car took off across the line. Sherlock pushed hard and came out of the Abbey neck to neck with Fernando. John noted in the back of his mind that Felipe had also overtaken Sebastian at the end of the corner and a second later his front wheels were between Sherlock and Fernando. 

Getting close to the Village Corner Sherlock hit the brakes much earlier than was sensible and simultaneously pulled into the centre of the track, forcing Felipe to slow down quickly in order not to crash into him. John swore and Lestrade nodded in agreement. Sherlock was very close to playing dirty but his plan had worked. Felipe was behind him again, unable to get between them. Fernando had pulled close to Sherlock, keeping him in check and pushing out ahead once they had passed Turn 5. 

Sherlock attacked a moment later. He only needed the six seconds it took him to race down Wellington Straight to easily overtake Fernando and pull up close to Lewis. Fernando didn’t seem to have expected him to be that fast and didn’t try to pull in front of him before he was past. The motor was doing exactly what John had hoped it would. 

He noticed that his fingers were nervously fiddling with the cable of his headphones, although he still felt much calmer than he had expected. It was as if his fingers acted on their own accord. He watched Felipe trying to follow Sherlock, but Fernando clearly wasn’t willing to let anyone else past in the foreseeable future and closed the door on him, allowing Sebastian to overtake Felipe again and win back his position. A few cars had switched places in the back of the field and all cars had come out of the start unscathed, which was a relief. The cameras now focused on the leading three, still closer together than Lewis and Nico probably liked. Sherlock didn’t even seem to find it difficult to stay behind Lewis in less than a second’s distance. 

Lestrade touched John’s shoulder and directed his glance at the statistics on an extra screen to the left. Jenson had managed to get up to seventh position during the start. John grinned and let himself image a scenario in which Jenson made second and him and Sherlock shared the podium at the end of the race. 

But that would be hard work. He opened the line with Sherlock and Jenson. “Propose change in tactics, Sherlock.”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock sounded relaxed. Good.

“Shoot,” Jenson sounded tense.

“Sherlock you take over the race, put yourself in front of Nico, and hold your pace."

“You mean for me to save fuel?” They all knew that what John was proposing was not exactly fair. But if Sherlock could pull this off and go a bit slower for a few laps, Jenson could catch up. 

“Yes.”

“John, I don’t think …” Jenson piped up.

“Good plan. Thank you, John.” Sherlock interrupted Jenson and cut the line. John exhaled slowly, hoping that he wouldn’t risk a penalty. He trusted Sherlock to not make it obvious. But then again, everyone was worried about the tyres after last year, so it would make sense to drive carefully. 

“Alright, do your worst,” Jenson sounded sceptical, but was willing to go with the plan.

It took Sherlock exactly two laps to overtake Lewis spectacularly in the Club Corner. Sherlock seemed to strategically position himself to have the fans partake in his brilliant driving. John chuckled and watched Sherlock getting closer to Nico, who had managed to get ahead a few seconds during Sherlock’s manoeuvre. Four laps later he got him in the exact same spot in which Lewis had lost the fight. John jumped up and punched the air, cheering loudly. This was exactly how he had hoped it would go. And Sherlock seemed so very much in his element. He drove beautifully. He placed himself firmly in front of Nico and began driving slightly slower laps. The lap times grew longer and the field, which had begun to stretch out, moved closer together again. 

The cameras began focussing on the group that followed the leading three. Jenson was stuck behind Felipe, who, in turn, was getting extremely close to Sebastian again. Anderson had managed to build a very strong car after all. John would have to apologise for his arrogance. 

Luffield Corner, which Sherlock had pointed out as Jenson’s weak spot, proved to be a blessing in disguise. Felipe was only inches behind Sebastian when they entered the turn and Felipe accelerated more than he should have, almost touching him when he hit the brakes to slide through the corner. The Williams followed the Red Bull in drifting slightly off track and Jenson attacked. 

John held his breath, grateful that the cameras were capturing the scene. Jenson gave everything he had and came out of the Woodcote in front of the other two. John half hugged Lestrade and the cameras showed the crew applauding in the pit. 

Fourth was good, but to imagine Jenson getting a trophy after such a long dry spell was something which seemed too beautiful a dream to give up on just yet. Fernando was, thanks to Sherlock, only six seconds ahead of him now. John was peripherally aware that Felipe had overtaken Sebastian as well, but the hoped that it wouldn’t be a problem. He remembered his enthusiastic comment before the parade. 

For a few long laps, nothing changed in the order of the top six. Several cars broke down, and two cars went into the gravel after touching in a corner, but the race continued without a yellow flag. Sherlock kept them together at a steady pace, allowing Nico to plan attacks on him, getting close every now and then, but Sherlock always managed to close the door to his attempts. John almost felt sorry for Nico. Maybe Sherlock was trying to frustrate him, hoping he’d make a mistake. Sherlock’s times showed that he was very precise about keeping a steady pace, each lap lasting around one minute and forty seconds.

Another six laps and Jenson attacked Fernando, who seemed to grow nervous by the unexpected occurrence of a McLaren holding its own at the front and just behind him. Jenson piped up through the team radio. “I think he needs new tyres soon. The left one looks like it might come off. I’m going to keep back for a bit.”

“Play it safe,” Lestrade agreed. “Sherlock, how are you holding up?”

“Bored.”

Jenson’s car lurched forward and for a second he swerved, and he was heard cursing loudly while laughing at Sherlock’s remark through the radio. 

“Steady,” Lestrade warned, trying to hide his own amusement at Sherlock’s exclamation.

“Nico will go in for refuelling within the next three laps. He started light. Expected to be miles ahead by now, I imagine,” Sherlock informed them, his voice betraying that he enjoyed it all much more than he was pretending. 

Sherlock was right. Two laps later, Nico disappeared in the pit lane and Fernando, closely followed by Jenson, almost caught up with Lewis and Sherlock. Lestrade gave Sherlock the order to take off. He’d done all he could for Jenson now and if he didn’t pull up now, chances were that once he needed the pit stop, he’d overtake him again. 

So Sherlock did what he was told. John watched him, biting down on his knuckles, smitten beyond belief with the grace with which he took his car through the corners. “Fucking beautiful,” he whispered against his hand.

Nico’s stop was relatively short, but because of Sherlock’s hold-up, the field was compact and he got stuck in traffic once he came out on the track again. John wondered whether anyone had actually noticed Sherlock’s tactics. He had been driving solid times and effectively fought Nico and Lewis off while not struggling overly much to do so. 

He looked at the times and found that Sherlock was going a good three seconds faster now, moving away from the rest with each lap. Soon he’d have to overtake the slowest cars and John remembered with a smile that he had been worried about Sherlock being on the track with other drivers. So far it hadn’t been a problem at all. He found that he had underestimated Sherlock’s abilities. 

“Hey John,” Lestrade pulled off his headphones for a second to be able to talk to him in private. “He’s been leading for fifteen laps. Bloody well done, both of you!”

John sat down and let it all sink in. One third of the race was over and none of his fears had become reality. He closed his eyes for a moment, putting his headphones in his lap, just listening to the cars race past below them, the noise in the stalls erupting each time Sherlock drove past. 

The realisation made John tear up. He had noticed it, but only now that he thought about it, he understood that Sherlock was being celebrated by the crowd. The surprise trump of the weekend, a completely unknown driver was leading a race in which all of the good cars of the season, except for maybe Sebastian’s Red Bull, were doing wonderfully. He felt incredibly pleased with himself and Sherlock.

Several drivers had come in for their first stops and John knew that it would be getting crowded soon. Jenson was still fighting Fernando and suddenly Felipe was getting close to them again. He must he very light by now, John thought, almost out of fuel, making the most of it. Fernando pushed, getting the fasted lap time of the race so far. Jenson seemed glued to his back with Felipe attacking in the pits straight. John put his headphones back on.

Lestrade told Jenson to watch his back and Sherlock to make sure that he could win more time to come through the refuelling unchallenged. John loved that Lestrade had adopted the notion that Sherlock could do his stop without losing the lead. John wasn’t sure he could. 

“I’m coming in in two,” Sherlock announced. “I need new tyres and fill me up. I don’t want to come back in again. Felipe is going to go, too. Fernando the lap after for a tyre change. Lewis is coming in soon, too. He needs new tyres as well. Jenson should go in right after me.”

Lestrade checked with the box and then double checked with Jenson and John turned around to see the team prepare the stops. Pit stops were often the most nerve wracking part of a race apart from the start and John prayed that nothing would go wrong. If it went really well – and he had seen his team do it – a refuelling and tyre changing stop would take 11 seconds. 28 seconds overall from drive in to the return to the track, considering the speed limit in the pit lane. John watched the mechanics get ready. It had been over a year since he had stood down there, overviewing the stops. He caught himself checking on the small details: The stance of the lollipop man, the position of the tyres, the tank, the angle of the sun and the position of everyone involved. 

He exhaled noisily when Sherlock came in, followed closely by Felipe, who drove past him once Sherlock had turned in to stop in front of the McLaren pit. John counted silently, ticking movements off his imaginary list. The tyres were fitted properly, the fuel hose withdrawn carefully and Sherlock was on his way, passing Felipe by a split second. Felipe’s stop had been much shorter, meaning less fuel for him and a possible second stop. There were still 33 laps to go. Good. Sherlock re-entered the track behind Daniel Ricciardo whom he overtook a lap later right in front of John’s eyes in the International Pits Straight. Felipe followed him, hard on his heels. 

So his wish was coming true, John grinned while Sherlock drove up to Sebastian, who still seemed to be struggling. Instead of overtaking him, he waited for a lap until Sebastian went out for a stop, making room for Sherlock to push forward again. Nico had been slowly moving forward, too, taking advantage of the stops of the other drivers, but he was still ten seconds behind Sherlock and Felipe. 

Jenson came in and the stop lasted a moment longer than Sherlock’s. John cursed, hoping that nothing had gone wrong. He would hate for Jenson to fall back again. 

He called in to announce that something had caught in his ventilation system and he’d had that cleaned. Lestrade told him to go and get out before Nico. Going as fast as he was allowed he managed to overtake him by a heartbeat. 

John worried his lip with his teeth. He was incredibly nervous now. Lewis and Fernando both came in at the same time. The stops were quick and efficient. They also had been given less fuel than Sherlock had requested and their stops had therefore been a bit faster. Fernando was about to drive out when Lewis pulled up right before him, almost causing Fernando to touch him. Lewis accelerated, shooting out onto the track with Fernando right behind him. Both drivers seemed nervous about the almost-crash.

Lestrade called the pit and a slow grin spread across his face. “Sherlock, Jenson, good news. Both went over eighty, so they’ll get drive-through penalties. … Yes, both.” John watched Lestrade’s gleeful expression, wondering how he’d react if it was Sherlock who was going too fast. He’d probably find an excuse for him. 

John allowed himself a moment to ponder on the relationship his boss had with Sherlock. He seemed almost like an older brother who had seen his little brother go through puberty, testing boundaries and breaking rules, constantly hoping that he’d come around to finally be able to prove to everyone that defending Sherlock had been worth it. It seemed as if today was the day that he might be able to do that.

It was more – so much more than just a huge step in John’s recovery process, he realised. It was about Sherlock showing Lestrade that the trouble had been worth it. John had been a welcome means to get him there, but it had really been about Lestrade all along, hadn’t it? 

He watched Sherlock’s movement, the smooth process of overtaking the slower cars, driving his own as if he had been born to do it. He could win this. If nothing else went wrong and he kept going, he could win this race. The strategy was working out and Sherlock’s predictions had been right. It seemed like a dream.

John watched the statistics coming through. The computer told them that both Sherlock’s and Jenson’s car were doing well. The fuel should suffice and the new tyres seemed to hold up nicely. Fernando and Lewis were thrown back half a lap due to their penalties, and traffic proved a problem for them. Jenson tried very hard to catch up with Felipe, but the Ferrari was doing extraordinarily well and he had to stay behind him. 

Sherlock began driving slower laps again, probably to save the tyres and not overtax the car, but John suspected that he wanted to play with Felipe. So much for Sherlock ignoring everyone else, John thought with a smile. Lestrade asked Sherlock through the radio to be wary of Felipe, to which he answered coolly that it was exactly what he was doing. 

With ten laps to go, Sherlock allowed Felipe to almost reach him. Eight laps to go and Felipe managed three times in a single lap to place himself by Sherlock’s flank. John could see that Lestrade’s fingers were itching to call in and tell Sherlock to cut it out, because it was obvious that his car was doing fine, but that Sherlock was playing cat and mouse. But he didn’t call and John felt elated on Sherlock’s behalf because it proved his trust in him.

Adrenaline, John though. He had meant it when he had said that he was bored, but he hadn’t suspected that Sherlock would be crazy enough to put himself in a position in which a simple mistake could mean the loss of the race. Six laps to go and Felipe pushed hard, passing Sherlock for a long second on the Wellington Straight.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

John had thought he had been nervous before, but now his heart beat almost painfully against his ribs and he could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He balled his hands into fists and forced himself to breathe calmly. If either of them made a mistake, they’d take each other off the track and lose it all.

After a small eternity Sherlock lurched forward and won the fight. He came out of the next corner leading again by more than a second. “You idiot,” John grinned, shaking his head. Felipe tried again when suddenly Jenson appeared behind him. Everyone had been paying such close attention to the fight at the top that Jenson’s slow but steady cutting down on seconds had gone largely unnoticed. Four laps to go and Jenson was only two seconds behind Felipe while Sherlock remained close and yet apparently unreachable in front of him. 

Two laps and Sherlock allowed him once more to almost overtake him and this time Felipe gave it all he had. He placed himself right next to Sherlock, pushing into the middle of the lane, making sure that Sherlock had to steer clear of him and leave the racing line, picking up dirt with his already blistering tyres. Just before entering the final lap, Felipe was past him and the shock ran through the stadium as they raced past. Jenson was left behind by a few seconds, but he was still firmly in third place. Felipe fought to get away from Sherlock. He tried to close the track to him, swerving whenever Sherlock came too close. Yet, the straights, the motor and his talent were all in Sherlock's favour. He pulled up to Felipe’s height in the Hangar Straight and shot past him in the Stowe. 

Taking the final corner, Sherlock was already two seconds ahead of him again, flying over the finish line and driving close to the wall where John and Lestrade stood to the deafening noise of the fans and the waving of the chequered flag. He didn’t say anything over the radio and he was calmly driving on, taking his car for a final spin. Felipe seemed mostly stunned, following Sherlock on his final lap. Jenson came in third, celebrating loudly and raising both arms in the air when he passed the pit wall. 

John let go of his breath which he hadn’t noticed he had been holding in for the last few corners of the race. Lestrade grabbed him and hugged him tightly. When he pulled away, John found that his boss had tears in his eyes. John laughed out of sheer happiness and hugged him back. Sherlock pulled into the pit lane and John turned around to watch him park the car. John almost broke his neck trying to get down those stairs as quickly as possible. Sherlock had just stepped out of his car, pulled off his helmet and balaclava and put them down when John jumped into his arms, wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips and kissed the top of his head.

“You fucking idiot,” he yelled at him over the noise around them. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” He grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s damp curls and pulled his head back so that he could look at his face. “That was bloody beautiful,” he said, calmer now, and meaning it. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his lips and suddenly John realised that he was being held up by a strong arm around his back and one on his arse to support his weight while his legs pressed against Sherlock’s hips. If he slipped down just an inch or two, their faces would be level and … 

John cleared his throat and loosened his legs, slowly sliding down to stand on his feet. Sherlock’s face was flushed and there was definitely a smile creeping into his features. A second later the smile gave way to something else which John couldn’t define, but which made him nervous. He punched Sherlock’s shoulder, grinning up at him, trying his best to pretend that he had not just jumped him in front of thousands of people and several camera teams.

Behind them, Felipe was celebrated by his team and now turned around to shake Sherlock’s hand. The drivers grinned at each other. “You are insane. I’ve never seen anything like it!” Felipe laughed and shook his hand once more. Then Sherlock was attacked by Jenson, who hugged him from behind, ruffling his hair. “Congratulations, Sherlock!” He was genuinely happy for him, John could tell.

“You did quite well,” Sherlock stated, prompting another hug from Jenson. 

“Thanks to your fearlessness. I don’t even understand what happened.”

A grin appeared on Sherlock’s face that immediately made John wish that he could just pull him down and kiss him. He closed his eyes for a moment, burying that idea deeply under more pressing matters. He picked up Sherlock’s helmet and took him by the arm. The protocol dictated the weighing of the drivers and a quick drink of water before they went out for the ceremony. 

“I won,” Sherlock stated halfway down the hall. Jenson laughed at him and affirmed that he had indeed won. John stepped back and let them go through the process of being weighed. Felipe shook his head, unable to comprehend the guts Sherlock had shown. “You said you wanted to race me,” Sherlock argued when he stood on the scales, noticing Felipe’s expression.

“It wasn’t exactly that kind of racing I had in mind.”

Sherlock’s expression showed that he was confused by that answer. “I didn’t upset you, did I?”

John stared at him, open mouthed. This was the first time he had heard Sherlock voicing his concern for a person that wasn’t him. 

Felipe grinned. “I was tempted to give you a little nudge every now and then during the last six laps, but no, not really. I knew I was just very surprised when I passed you. I should have known that you were playing with me.”

Colour rose to Sherlock’s cheeks and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to.”

He stepped off the scales to make room for Felipe, grabbing the bottle of water that was offered and hid behind it for a moment. 

“You didn’t mean to let me through?”

“No,” Sherlock confirmed, his voice quiet.

“Bloody hell. And you still had the nerve to overtake him again?” Jenson cut in and almost pushed Felipe off the scales in his excitement. 

“I had to win,” Sherlock said, matter of factly. “I said I’d try to win. So I had to try. John worked so hard…” John tried hard to ignore the constricting feeling in his throat. 

Felipe looked at him, baffled. “I can’t wait to re-watch the race.”

They were taken outside and Lestrade came upstairs a moment before they stepped out for the ceremony. “John, did Josh tell you? You’re going out there. This one is yours.”

John inhaled deeply and stood on his toes to look over the drivers’ shoulders onto the podium. Sherlock turned around and caught his eye, sending a small spark through John’s guts. He nodded, suddenly knowing that he wouldn’t be able to keep from crying once he was out there. His life had changed profoundly within the span on a week and he was only starting to understand just how much better he was now than he had been last Monday. 

John nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed by it all. “Okay.” He handed his boss his phone and ID card to keep them safe from the champagne shower and turned to face the door. 

The noise was immense once they walked outside and the drivers stepped onto the podium. Jenson went first, raising his arms up in the air and simply stood there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of finally being on the podium again. Felipe followed, smiling his shy smile and then Sherlock hesitantly stepped between them, glancing at John, who watched him, feeling overwhelmed with pride. His face hurt from grinning. 

When “God Save the Queen” was played over the speakers and the flags were raised behind them, John couldn’t hold back the tears. He cried through the anthem and he cried when the boys were handed their awards and he wiped furiously at his face before he was handed the team’s trophy. He had built that car and it had carried Sherlock through the race and to the top of that podium. 

He barely registered the champagne bottles being picked up and shaken, so he suddenly found himself drenched in sticky liquid. Trying to not drown in champagne, he turned around and pushed backwards to ward off the attack while giggling manically. He somehow managed to grab the bottle from Jenson and returned the favour. John had expected Felipe to spray his team on the ground below them, but he found him engaging in a proper champagne fight with Sherlock, who, being taller than Felipe, was currently endeavouring to empty the whole bottle over the smaller driver’s head. 

“Oy, save some for drinking,” John yelled and Sherlock turned around to face him, only to be hit by a wave of sparkling wine from Felipe’s bottle. Jenson grabbed the bottle from John and put it to his lips and drank, foam shooting out of his mouth as soon as he pulled it back. John laughed and took the bottle back from him, drinking some and letting some run over his face, washing away the tears.

He loved this part, always had. It was disgusting and childish and the perfect way to get rid of the nervous energy that remained after a race. Jenson grabbed him and drew him into a messy hug. Then he was passed on to Sherlock, into whose arms he was pushed. Sherlock held him tightly with one arm and proceeded to pour more champagne on John, who laughed and grunted and tried to wiggle his way out of the hug. Sherlock held on even after he stopped drenching John further. 

Finally Sherlock decided to actually drink some and John felt slightly sorry for his team, which wouldn’t really see much of the champagne after this insane fight. Sherlock’s arm fell from John’s shoulder and John had to force himself to step away from him. Felipe dropped his bottle down to his team which shared the last few remaining drops. Jenson held his bottle up and shrugged, dropping it, too, throwing a ‘sorry about that’ right after it.

Sherlock held on to his bottle and John guessed that he wouldn’t let go of it. Secretly sentimental sod! He grinned at him, glad to have an excuse to wipe his face without anyone thinking now that he might brush away tears. He could tell from Sherlock’s look that he knew exactly that even now John couldn’t hold them back. 

The post-race interview had Jenson babbling proudly about Sherlock and the team and John's return while Felipe tried to somehow explain the last few laps of the race in as few words as possible. Sherlock answered the questions that were directed at him with a simple yes or no and John had to bite his tongue as to not give him a shove to tell him to be more talkative. Since Sherlock was unwilling to discuss anything about the race in front of thousands of people, they were soon sent off the podium, much to Sherlock's obvious relief. 

Once they had grabbed their trophies, they were handed towels which didn’t really help to dry them off, and ushered into the press conference room. Sherlock looked a bit lost, so John led him to his chair, squeezing his arm to reassure him. “It’ll be fine, I’ll be just outside.” He put the mechanic’s cup next to Sherlock’s.

“You’re leaving?” Sherlock’s eyes searched his face. 

“No room for me here,” John gestured at the room crowded with journalists. “I’ll wait for you. Just be yourself.”

Sherlock gave John a look that made him chuckle. “Just be how you think they might want you to be.” He added.

He crouched down next to Jenson’s chair. “Take care of him for a moment, will you? If he says something inappropriate … just give him a kick, he’ll understand.”

Jenson nodded and patted his back. “No worries. And congratulations!”

“Thanks,” John smiled and left the room in search of a screen from which he would be able to watch the interview. He was excited to talk to Mike about the race and to ask him for feedback on the performance of the car. On his way, he pushed past two men in black suits. They looked like heavy security and John wondered if anyone from the royal family was around. He was sure he had spotted someone who had looked like Prince Harry earlier. 

“John Watson?” One of the men addressed him just as he had walked past. 

“Yes?”

“Please come with us.”

For a tiny moment he imagined himself being brought before the Queen and he grinned. Then he looked at the man who had spoken to him and decided that it would probably be a good idea to follow them no matter what it was they wanted from him. They looked ready to just pick him up and carry him off. “Where to?”

Instead of an answer the two men led him down the hall and outside where a dark car with tinted windows was waiting. “I’m not getting into this car,” John said, taking a step back. For some reason they were entirely alone. The back door of the car opened and a bored looking man with a raised eyebrow peeked out. “Get in the car, John Watson!” He did not raise his voice, but the command was quite clear. The two security men did not move.

“Give me a good reason,” John crossed his arms in front of his chest, knowing that his soaked overall would leave traces on the leather. The notion seemed very satisfying. 

“I understand you have partnered up with Sherlock Holmes?” Contempt now broke through the bored tone in his voice. 

John frowned. “None of your business.”

The man smiled the fakest smile John had ever seen and he began seeing the man with new eyes. Sherlock could fake-smile almost as perfectly. He imagined the man emptying a restaurant so he could eat cake in peace and suddenly he didn’t seem quite as threatening anymore.

“You’re Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft.”

A gleam in his eyes told John that he was impressed, even if he tried to hide it. “Get in the car.”

John sighed and moved around the car, sitting down next to the strange man who wore a three piece suit like a man who never wore anything else. 

The car didn’t leave the circuit but drove them to the estate in the centre of the track. John felt relieved. They wouldn’t kidnap him and ditch him somewhere on a country road. He felt a bit calmer, although he had no idea what to expect. 

The car stopped and when Mycroft Holmes got out, John had no choice but to follow. He checked his seat to make sure that his bottom had left a trace and he barely managed to hide a triumphant grin.

Inside he was shown to a wooden chair with a plastic cover while the elder Holmes sat down in a leather armchair. A small coffee table was brought in and tea was conjured up out of nowhere. 

“What do you want from my brother?” Mycroft Holmes stirred sugar in his tea without looking at John.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

John stared at the mysterious man, wondering how much he knew about his last week with Sherlock. He remembered that Mike had taken Sherlock to the circuit because something had happened between the brothers. Had Sherlock complained about him? Had he asked Mycroft to come and speak for him? It seemed unlikely. But Sherlock would have said something. He had acted out of character a little. The look of panic on Sherlock's face had left a bitter aftertaste, but he had almost forgotten about it. Was it because he needed him to back off, but didn't know how to tell him? No, he wouldn't have touched him on the wall and he wouldn't have held him after the race. 

“I want to build cars.”

Mycroft merely raised a contemptuous eyebrow. 

“I want to work. Your brother helped me.”

“ _He_ helped you?” Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe a word he was saying, John reckoned. 

“Yes, very much so. And he just won a race, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Sherlock has had a difficult history …”

“You’re his brother, so I’m not surprised,” John interrupted him, feeling himself grow angry. Why was he here? He had promised Sherlock to wait for him and now he was held captive by his strange brother who seemed to have a knack for staging his appearance as if he was some sort of James Bond villain. 

Mycroft sighed and drank from his tea. “Victor Trevor.”

“Hmm?” John had never heard that name before. He waited for more information.

Mycroft Holmes held out his hand and was given a folder which he placed on the table between them. “Have a look.”

John hesitantly took the folder and opened it. Several pictures and a multitude of medical files fell out onto his lap. He picked up a picture which showed a dark skinned man with black curly hair, piercing green eyes and a wide, cocky smile. He looked vaguely familiar. 

The second picture made his heart contract painfully. He recognised the photo of Sherlock which he had initially found on the internet. The annoyance at being photographed was even more obvious now hat he knew Sherlock so much better. Next to him stood the same young man, beaming at Sherlock. John felt the world tilt and he looked up, feeling unwell all of the sudden. He began to realise who that man was. The third picture showed him in a hospital bed, one leg heavily bandaged, the other amputated. John swallowed hard and looked up at Mycroft. “It’s Sally’s brother.”

“Half-brother, they have different fathers.”

“They were friends?”

“Well, you have met my brother, how many friends do you imagine he has?”

Apparently he had had only one, and lost him. John returned to the second photo. It made sense now, the annoyance. Sherlock’s body was turned towards the man, or boy, rather, though he faced the camera. He wanted to be alone – alone with Victor. John suddenly felt crushed by the immensity of the realisation of what Sherlock had gone through. “Sherlock thinks he’s responsible.” He found it hard to speak. 

“He has good reason to.”

“Why?”

Mycroft sighed. “Before I answer you, I need to know what you want from my brother.”

Smiles, John thought. And embraces and kisses and hours in the garage working away on a dream. He looked down on the picture. “I want him to be happy.”

“Then you should end your acquaintance with him.”

“What? Why?”

“Victor Trevor was Sherlock’s only companion. He had a difficult childhood and his situation did not improve when he grew older. In Victor he found someone who had the same interests, who understood his concept of racing, who helped him fit in.”

“What happened?” John still looked at the picture, marvelling at the cruelty of a brother who made sure that half of that picture remained on the internet to … what end, really? To remind Sherlock that he had hurt the people he loved? John suppressed the impulse to push away the table and punch Mycroft Holmes. 

“Sherlock … grew … infatuated, for lack of a better term.”

John finally understood where this was going and his anger was joined by a very different and much more prominent emotion.

Hope.

He didn’t dare ask, so he looked at Mycroft with what he hoped was an indifferent expression, prompting him to keep talking.

“He felt the need to inform Victor about it. They had had an extremely successful week. Try-outs for Formula 1. It’s quite a costly hobby and Sherlock had convinced me to invest in Victor. One morning Sherlock … made advances.”

John realised that his pretended indifference had disappeared entirely and he was sitting at the edge of his seat, shaking with the certainty of what would follow.

“Victor did not appreciate it. At all. He was repulsed and told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that ... he was not to go near him again. We are not sure of the exact proceedings, but it appears that the conversation was much more elaborate than Sherlock let us know. In any case, afterwards Victor Trevor simply left to prepare for the race, leaving Sherlock to fend for himself.”

“He broke his heart.” It wasn’t a question. John was certain. 

Mycroft scowled at his choice of words but sighed and nodded. “If you want to put it that way.”

John forced himself to sit back in his chair, regretting now to not have asked for a chance to shower and change before letting himself be taken away. 

“The race started and Sherlock drove like the devil. I don’t think he was ready to work out what had happened between him and Victor, but at a point the two cars collided and, well, Victor lost a leg and Sherlock stopped talking.”

“When was that?”

“Ten years ago.”

“When did he start talking again?”

“When Greg took him under his wing.”

“You know Lestrade?”

“We have ... a sort of arrangement. He keeps an eye on him and I make sure that when he breaks something, it’s paid for.”

“So they didn’t even have to pay for the damage,” John murmured to himself, adding it to a list of things he’d throw at anyone who’d badmouth Sherlock in his presence next.

Mycroft frowned and then shook his head. “I am afraid that he is currently … repeating his mistake.”

“What? What do you mean?” John was confused, wondering once again what exactly it was that Mycroft Holmes wanted from him. And yet he knew where this conversation was going and he felt it difficult to stay calm.

“You have become quite closely acquainted with my brother, despite knowing him for barely a week.” Not a question. John swallowed and refused to let his thoughts show on his face. If Mycroft was as perceptive as Sherlock, he knew he couldn’t possibly succeed; not when his heart was racing a mile a minute. “What are your intentions?”

John swallowed hard, wondering if he could trust the man. “He told me you like cake,” he started, secretly pleased with the baffled look he received. “He told me he had never been out for after-work-drinks and …”

Victor Trevor had broken his heart and yet Sherlock had decided to trust someone again – him, of all people. “He helped me to get better and he helped me build the car that took him all the way to victory today.” 

Was Sherlock trying to help him so he could make up for hurting Victor? Was that why he was so concerned for John?

“Yes, I have known him for only a week but he has become very important to me.” 

Mycroft looked at him as if he was worried that John had lost it. “And are there other important people in your life?”

John blinked stupidly at him. “I'm sorry?”

“Jenson Alexander Lyons Button, for example?” 

Mycroft’s question made John gape at him, realisation slowly battling down his confusion. “He’s my friend.” 

“Your 'friend', is he? Your file says something else.”

“My ... file?” John rose from his chair, angry now. “You keep a bloody file of me?”

“Sit down, John,” Mycroft pointed at the chair. “I am merely protecting my brother.”

“By stalking his friends?”

“How would you define your relationship with Mr Button, apart from being his ‘friend’?”

John bit his tongue and said nothing.

“Let me help you,” Mycroft said and held out his hand. Another folder appeared. John put it down on his knees without looking at it. 

“There is evidence of physical intimacy between you and Mr Button, as late as of last night,” Mycroft explained. 

A laugh excaped John. It was a bitter laugh. The folder slipped to the ground while he tried desperately not to grab the tea cup and throw it at Mycroft’s face. 

“You have got to be joking!” He was so angry that his hands were shaking. “I don’t know what game you are playing but what Sherlock is to me is absolutely none of your fucking business, so keep your paranoid arse out of my life, and his, because if he grew up with you _protecting_ him then I know why it’s so hard for him to make friends, which it really isn’t, by the way. The team likes him, Jenson in particular. Oh, is that screwing with your statistics? Do you really have nothing better to do than to play secret service and stalk your brother’s friends while making sure he doesn’t forget that he possibly caused an accident that crippled the only person he ever loved in his life?" John was fuming and had the feeling that any moment now one of Mycroft’s bodyguards would find the means to shut him up. "You disgust me!”

“I’m afraid my brother is … falling in love with you,” Mycroft said quietly, his voice icy cold. He seemed entirely unimpressed by what John had thrown at him. 

John fell back into the chair, staring at Mycroft. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Mycroft sounded bitter, disappointed somehow. 

John couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Just the thought that Sherlock would have potentially kissed him back earlier had he not resisted the urge made his head spin. He let out a shaky breath. Then he looked at Mycroft again, still upright, still believing that what he was doing was protecting Sherlock. 

“Did you suggest to him that I and Jenson were more than friends?” 

“I merely put the evidence before him …”

John was up and out of the room before either of the large man could react. He flung himself against the front door, hurting his shoulder in the process, panicking for a moment when he thought he was trapped before he realised that door opened inwards. He pulled hard and stumbled outside. The bright light made him squint as he ran as fast as he could away from the stuffy room and Sherlock’s creepy brother. 

As he ran the pain kept him sane. He allowed his thoughts to return to the hug after the race and the way Sherlock had looked at him when he had pulled his hair back. The motion in itself had been incredibly intimate. And Sherlock had possibly thought that John wasn’t interested in him at all because of Jenson. 

Jenson was like a brother to him, a brother with whom he had lost touch after the accident but who had let him back in once he was on his way to recovery and who had been incredibly supportive since then. John stumbled and almost fell, still sticky from the champagne and now tipsy from the sheer magnitude of Mycroft’s words. 

The way he had worded it, probably purposefully, implied that Mycroft wasn’t sure. He was afraid rather than certain. He was afraid because Sherlock had been close to repeating the mistake of telling John how he felt, risking another heart-break. “Jesus, Sherlock!” John gasped, wishing that he had not given his phone to Lestrade before the ceremony. 

He finally reached the drivers’ camp and stumbled into the trailer, finding it empty. He dropped down on a chair and simply breathed for a moment, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. His heart continued to race and he wondered if he would simply be stuck like this for the next hour, panting, his legs shaking, unable to calm down. This was very different from a panic attack, but he felt just as helpless. 

The door opened and Jenson walked in. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt, pulling his girlfriend into the trailer with him, laughing at something she had just said. “There you are! Where the hell have you been?” Jenson looked absolutely blissful and at peace with the world. Jessica had arrived after the race it seemed.

“Hey John, how are you?” Jessica waved at him, unsure how to approach him as he sat there, obviously not calm and happy at all. 

John shook his head, still out of breath. “Sorry, hey Jess. I was … I met Sherlock’s brother.” 

Jenson looked at him for two seconds before he nodded. “Erm, Jess, would you wait outside for a moment, I think …,” he gestured at John and his girlfriend gave him a quick kiss and left them alone. Jenson pulled up a chair and sat down facing John.

“What happened?”

John tried to force himself to breathe more evenly. Jenson reached behind himself and produced a bottle of water. “Drink.”

He drank and wiped his face. “He said that Sherlock is … that he’s …“

“A mass murderer? An actor? An alien?” Jenson supplied, making John smile. 

“No,” he felt himself blush, his cheeks burning. “He said he’s in love with me,” he almost whispered. Now that he had started smiling, he found that he couldn’t stop.

“Sherlock’s brother is in love with you?”

John stared blankly at his friend for a moment before Jenson started grinning. “Just fucking with you,” he chuckled. Then his face softened. “But, John. Don’t you know?”

John blinked repeatedly. “What? Are you trying to tell me that …”

“Jesus, I don’t believe this.”

“Wh … Jenson, I’m having an existential crisis here, don’t be an arse.”

Jenson gently took the water bottle from John’s hands. Only then did John notice that he had torn the label from it.

“John. I have rarely ever seen two people who were so smitten with each other. Bloody hell, people grew uncomfortable just watching you work together, never mind you guys standing around and just chatting.”

“Are you saying that you grew uncomfortable around us …?” John had not spent a single moment wondering about how they might have been percieved. 

“To be honest, yes. I always made sure to check for the nearest emergency exit in case you two finally decided to follow your instincts …”

“Oh my god.” John buried his face in his hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

“So, erm, are you implying that Sherlock doesn’t know how you feel about him?” John noticed that he hadn’t said a word about his own feelings to Jenson. 

“Well, I tried not to be obvious.”

Jenson snorted, causing John’s blush to deepen. “Oh god.”

“I think you and Sherlock need to have a talk.”

“Where is he?”

“He changed and then he took a call. I reminded him of the party tonight, but I haven’t seen him since.”

“When.”

“Ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh no!” John stared at Jenson, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. “What if his brother called him and …”

“How would that be a bad thing?”

“I didn’t really finish the conversation with him. I just walked out. Well, ran, rather.” John started chewing on his lip. He needed to shower and he needed to get his phone back. “Could you do me an immense favour?”

“Sure.”

“Call him. Call him as often as it takes for him to answer? I need to get out of this overall and Lestrade still has my phone. Just tell him …”

“I’ll tell him that you have been asking about him and that you hope he is alright and that you would like to meet him for drinks later?”

“Yes, just … yes, that. Probably. I don’t know. Something. Just let him know that … that I need to see him.”

Jenson grinned. “Is that code?”

John reached across the table to mockingly punch his shoulder. The movement made him remember his own pain. “I think I need to see Aki about my shoulder, too.”

“Do that. I’ll be here, getting ready for the party and I will try to get hold of Sherlock and tell him to come and wait for you here so you two can finally get down to business.”

John shook his head, unable to fight down images of Sherlock lowering his chin to kiss him. He swallowed and got up, peeling himself out of his overall. “Towel?” he asked as he stepped into the shower cubicle at the far end of the trailer, shedding the rest of his clothes. 

“Top shelf to the left,” Jenson answered. “I’ll let you shower and get your things from next door. Have to tell Jess the news.”

John rolled his eyes and concentrated on getting the sweat and champagne off his skin and out of his hair. The way Sherlock had hugged him, drawing him close, so close, he only would have had to drop the bottle and he would have held him with both arms. But Sherlock knew better than to allow himself to do that. God, what if he had tried to hold back just like John had? Scared to be wrong about him. Scared of his feelings for someone who might just want to be his friend?

John had felt sorry for himself. He had felt silly for pining for Sherlock, stupid to take that picture of him sleeping. But Sherlock must have been terrified. 

That moment on the wall, when he had touched him, his hand lingering on his shoulder, barely touching skin. John remembered the pain he had felt, convincing himself that what he felt for Sherlock was a spur of the moment thing. To imagine what Sherlock must have felt, up there, an arm length away from him, being drawn to him just as John felt drawn to Sherlock. No wonder he had looked utterly terrified in the box just after that experience, especially if he thought that John was involved with Jenson.

The pieces of the puzzle that were Sherlock’s strange moods fell into place. 

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him and he had no idea that John felt the same.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, guys! I am so amused by how angry everyone is with Mycroft (rightfully so) and so pleased that you like Jenson :-) And again, thank you so much for your super lovely comments!!

When John had dried off he found that Jenson had brought him his clothes from their trailer. Slipping into them, John felt much more like himself. He bit down the disappointment at Sherlock’s absence. How simple it would have been if he had just sat there, waiting for him to come out of the shower. He felt a bit light headed.

John ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn't look as exhausted as he had anticipated. _Okay. Plan for the rest of the day: find Sherlock, explain himself and … kiss him._ He blushed just thinking about that last part. 

Jenson and Jess sat on the stairs in front of the motorhome chatting and John joined them there. “How do I do this?” he asked, digging his fingers into his thighs.

"He doesn’t answer his phone,” Jenson said apologetically. “I did try. Jess tried. Maybe you should try?” He handed John his phone and ID. He must have talked to Lestrade while John had showered. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to know if they had discussed the issue. Judging from Jenson’s amused expression they had. 

“He might have gone home,” John thought aloud. “If he was on the phone to Mycroft, I don’t think he’ll feel like celebrating tonight."

“I told Lestrade that you two probably won’t join the party.”

John stared at him and Jenson grinned. “You are unbelievable, John,” he chuckled. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice. God, the way he looks at you.” 

John had trouble breathing. “How does he look at me?” John knew his ears were glowing red, but since they were having this conversation now, he wouldn’t walk away from it.

“He looks at you just like you look at him.”

“And how do I look at him?” John felt his head spin. 

Jenson smirked. “Like he’s a fucking original black AC Cobra in mint condition that you want to touch but you’re afraid to leave fingerprints on.”

“Oh dear god,” John groaned, hiding his face in his hands again. 

Jenson laughed. “Now stop feeling embarrassed for yourself and go talk to him.”

“Could you …”

“The sponsors won't be happy, but yes, I’ll excuse you. More cake for me!”

“Oh God, don’t talk about cake!” John got up and inhaled deeply, ignoring Jenson’s confused look at that particular last remark. “I’ll find Mike to see if he can get me a ride.”

“Go, get him, tiger.” Jenson grinned and gave him a gentle shove. 

John decided against seeing the doctor despite his aching shoulder and tried calling Sherlock. His phone rang out and his mailbox did not seem to be switched on. “Fuck,” he murmured and tried again. He had dialled Sherlock’s number about twenty times before he made himself stop, not wanting to come across as completely desperate. Well, that ship had sailed about ten attempts earlier, he thought, angry with himself for not thinking this through. If Sherlock expected him to call to tell him that he wasn’t interested, every call would make it worse for him. He should have thought about that. 

Instead of calling again, he sent a text. “Sorry for the many calls. I just need to know that you’re okay. I’m a bit worried. Where are you?”

He made his way inside the main building, avoiding anyone who looked like press and tried to find Mike. When he found him, he looked incredibly pleased. He hugged John and immediately started praising the car and Sherlock’s insane skills and gushed about how happy he was for John that all of this had paid off so wonderfully. He was ready to get him a drink when John stopped him. “Mike, sorry, I can’t come to … I have to go to London. There’s been a misunderstanding and I need to make things right.”

Mike looked at him as if he feared that somehow today’s race could be potentially tarnished by a scandal or false play and John felt irrationally disappointed in Mike. “What are you saying?”

John sighed and turned away for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I think Sherlock … I think something I did upset him and I need to …”

“Something _you_ did?” 

John exhaled shakily. In the face of Jenson’s complete understanding, Mike’s ignorance seemed like mockery. “It has nothing to do with the race, nor with the car. I just need to apologise to him.”

“You mean you want to tell him that you fancy him?”

John gaped. Apparently everyone knew and he was an idiot for thinking that Mike was thinking badly of him. 

“Oh John. I told you. I understand.”

“I …” He didn’t know what to say. 

“Just remember that you’ve only known him for a week. You don’t know how he was, how he can be.”

“Oh, but I do. Don’t you see? I absolutely do.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Mike frowned at him, clearly worried.

“I can’t explain now. I just need to go to London and find him.”

“What makes you think that he’s in London? He might be at his brother’s estate. I know they had their differences, but it seems that Sherlock spends a lot of time there. Apparently he has his own track behind his house which doubles as a golf course.”

John definitely did not want to know how much time Sherlock spent at his creepy brother’s estate. He would make sure to put as much distance between the two brothers as he could. “Just get me a car, please.”

Mike looked at John for a very long time before he nodded and made a call. Five minutes later John left the track, thinking about what Mike had said. If Mycroft had talked to Sherlock and confirmed that John had reacted the way he had after he brought up Jenson, Sherlock had to think that Mycroft’s assumptions were right. So maybe he was indeed at his brother’s, suffering his presence rather than being alone.

The trip to London seemed terribly long. John wished now that he had his own car to go faster, but he knew that he would probably be too nervous to drive. The certainty that Sherlock felt that way about him while simultaneously dreading a let-down made John’s stomach ache. He thought about texting Sherlock again but dismissed the idea. He held on to the hope that he would be at home and not with Mycroft. 

Finally they reached Baker Street and John jumped out of the car a few blocks away from Sherlock’s flat. He needed to walk a bit, even if it was just for half a mile. When he reached number 221, he simply stood in front of the door for a while, his index finger hovering over the B-button. 

A honking car startled him out of his immobility and he inhaled deeply before pressing down. Then he stepped back and waited, his heart beating wildly. 

Nothing happened. He pressed the bell again, feeling suddenly terrified that Sherlock had just disappeared and that he had lost his chance to make things right. 

“Please be home,” he whispered against the door. 

Nothing. 

Maybe he was taking a shower, maybe he was drowning everything out with headphones and loud music. Maybe he was in a pub getting drunk. He promised himself that if he didn’t open the door for him after the third time, he’d go home. He refused to imagine himself walking away from the door. It seemed so wrong. Sherlock had to be home. He just had to. 

His hand shook when he pressed down once again. Trembling, he touched the door, willing it to open. 

He almost tumbled through it when it did. Mrs Hudson gave him a surprised look. She had been about to speak but once she had given John a once-over she stepped back and held out a hand, indicating for him to come in.

“He’s not in,” she said, closing the door behind him and ushering him into her flat. John felt himself pressed down on a chair in her kitchen. Mrs Hudson put the kettle on and sat down across from him, pushing a bowl of biscuits towards him. 

“What’s wrong?”

John looked at her and wondered briefly how much she knew about him. Sherlock seemed to have told her about him on the first day they had met. 

“Do you know where he is?” John asked, taking a shortbread stick to occupy his hands. He was still shaking, as if his body wasn’t sure what to do with the pent up tension now that he couldn’t talk to Sherlock. 

“No, but he’ll come home eventually. What happened to you?”

John swallowed hard and noted that there was a photo of Sherlock’s smiling face stuck to her fridge with a magnet. He was very young in the photo. Before Victor, he thought. Before me.

Tears filled his eyes and he tried desperately to keep his lips from trembling. 

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. It’ll be alright.”

“I did not want to hurt him,” John burst out, biting back the tears. He was angry with himself and he didn't quite know why. “He helped me so much and I just …” He pressed a hand against his mouth, trying to hold it together. It felt like a panic attack, but he could still breathe, if only in sobs. The pressure of the weekend, the desperate hiding of his feelings, even from himself, it all broke out of him in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen. He knew he’d feel mortified about this later, but right now he did not stand a chance against his emotions. 

Mrs Hudson let him work through his pain and waited until he had calmed down. She pressed a tissue in his hand. “John, you don’t mind if I call you John, right? Well, listen, John. I don’t know you very well, but I know that you mean a great deal to Sherlock. Whatever it is that you did, I am sure you can talk to him about it and you’ll sort it out. Now have some tea. Tea always helps.”

John just nodded, being glad that she brought some normalcy to the table. “Thank you, no sugar, please.” He wiped his face and blew his nose. 

Mrs Hudson placed a large mug in front of him and added cream, patting his hand. “Now tell me about that car of yours. How old is it? I remember my husband used to have a similar one, back in 1970.”

John gratefully took the offered way out of his current state of mind and began telling her about his car, about his accident, about what it meant to him, about what Sherlock meant to him. He didn’t know how long he had talked, but his mug had been refilled twice and the biscuits were gone from the bowl by the time he admitted to a woman he had only met once before that he had fallen in love with the man who had trusted him enough to drive a car that he had built for him. “It just happened. I fell in love with him and don’t know what to do. I never meant to hurt Sherlock,” he rubbed his face, sighing deeply.

A small, pained noise came from behind Mrs Hudson and John looked up from his hands to find that the open kitchen door was no longer empty. Sherlock stood entirely still, the darkness from the hall behind him letting him barely stand out from the shadows. A second later he had disappeared. 

Mrs Hudson turned around and called after Sherlock. John stood, ready to chase after him, but she put a hand on his wrist and gently held him. “Let him go. He’ll need some time alone to think about what you just said.”

John felt his heart beating painfully. His shoulder ached and his stomach was in knots. He was desperate to be near him. “I didn’t see him. I don’t know what he heard,” John said, conflicted about staying. He wanted to run after Sherlock. He wanted to stop him in the street and hold him and finally say it to his face. 

“Enough, I think,” Mrs Hudson smiled. “And you, young man, don’t have to feel sorry.”

“But I am, I …”

“He’ll be back.”

“Did you know?” John asked, sitting down again. "Everybody seemed to know apart from us."

“About how he feels about you? Yes, in a way. You see, he spent an entire night walking holes into the carpet. I knew that something was going on. When I brought him his morning tea he always seemed miles away and when he realised I was there, he tended to talk a lot of nonsense as if to distract me from his state. It wasn’t such a long reach to figure out that it was you that caused the distraction.”

“How did you find out?” It had been years since John had felt anything akin to butterflies, but right now he was overwhelmed with the feeling. Sherlock had been unable to sleep because he had thought of him. Just the implication of his longing for him made John’s heart ache. 

“The number on his helmet.” She smiled at John. 

“What?”

“Sherlock has a list of people, an index, if you will. People who are important to him, in one way or another. He started that list when he was a child and his pet dog, his violin teacher, Ayrton Senna, Albert Einstein and Marie Curie are on it. Everyone gets a number. I have a copy of the list, in case something happens to him. If anything were to happen to him, I am to contact only the people on that list. The other day he filled in your name, and I thought it was a good sign that he’d decided to put a new one on there. You see, he hadn’t touched the list in years. Your number on that list is number forty.”

“Jesus.”

“I think you two have a lot to talk about. You can stay here and wait, if you want to. I’ll go and watch some telly and you’re more than welcome to join me.”

“Yes, I think that would be lovely,” John nodded, feeling rather safe with her. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Really. It’s good to know he has someone like you looking after him. His brother doesn’t seem to be very good at that sort of thing.”

She rolled her eyes at the mention of Sherlock’s brother but then she smiled and opened a cupboard, producing a bottle of whisky. “I think there is some cause for celebration.”

“But he’s not back and …”

“I meant the race, dear. Your success.”

“Sherlock’s.”

“And yours.”

John had to smile. “Alright. Just don’t get me drunk.”

Mrs Hudson giggled and led him into a cosy living room, offering him a seat in an arm chair. He was handed a tumbler half full with whisky and she turned on the television set, selecting a soap opera which John had never heard of in his life. He was glad that she didn’t turn on the news. He wasn’t ready to look at anything concerning the race yet.

His phone rang and he jumped, his heart beating fast when he pulled it out of his pocket. Lestrade. He exhaled, trying not to feel too disappointed. If this night went in any like he wanted it to, he'd pick a special ringtone for Sherlock so he would always know when he called. John excused himself and walked out of the room.

“Hey John, how is your private party going?”

“Hey Greg.”

“Come on, spill.”

“There is nothing to say,” he spoke quietly. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to him, yet.”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

“What did you expect?”

“But he is with you, right?”

“No, he’s … out for a walk.”

“So you did talk to him?”

“No.”

“John. As your boss and as your friend, I am telling you now, and this is not the alcohol speaking, alright? I am telling you that you will not come back to work before you have sorted this out, even if it takes a week. We’ve two weeks until Germany, so you get your act together. By the way, he can stay if he wants to, I talked it over with the board. That is, if you two don’t end up distracting each other.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” John started to feel that it was wrong to talk about Sherlock that way, as if everyone just assumed that things would be alright between him and the team and all the bad blood would be forgotten. While working with Sherlock was definitely something that he wanted to continue doing, he knew that Sherlock didn’t really feel at home with McLaren and he would leave the decision entirely to him. “Listen, I have to go."

“John, before you go. Today was fantastic. You’ve done brilliantly. Both of you. I’m so proud."

“Greg? Could you do me a favour?”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can you tell Mycroft Holmes to shove his files where the sun never shines?”

Lestrade spluttered on the other end of the line and John hung up, feeling a tiny bit satisfied. He’d probably apologise to his boss later, just as he still owed an apology to Anderson, but right now his top priority was to apologise to Sherlock.

He turned to go back into Mrs Hudson’s living room when he heard the front door being unlocked. He stopped breathing, waiting for Sherlock to come into Mrs Hudson’s flat to look for him. He wanted so very much to just walk out into the hall and talk to him, but he felt that he needed Sherlock to make the decision. He heard steps outside and Sherlock's profile appeared behind the glass panel of the door, but he stopped there. 

John took a step towards the door before he thought better of it. Quietly, he went back into the living room and sat down, downing his whisky while pretending to be interested in a chaotic family conversation which Mrs Hudson seemed to follow avidly. 

He noticed that his hands had started shaking again.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

A few minutes later he heard footsteps from above. He understood now what Mrs Hudson had meant when she said that she had heard him walk holes into the carpet. Sherlock was pacing, back and forth and back and forth and John couldn’t pretend to concentrate on the show anymore. “I need to see him,” he said, standing up, feeling light headed from whisky and nerves. 

Mrs Hudson looked at him long and hard before her features softened. Then she nodded. “Good luck.”

“Thanks for everything,” John made a face that was supposed to at least resemble a smile and her amused expression told him that he failed spectacularly. 

John slowly walked upstairs, his stomach in knots. He stood in front of the door, fearing to never find the courage to knock, when it suddenly flew open. In a déjà vu, reminding John of the morning after he had spent the night in Sherlock’s flat, Sherlock almost walked into him. His hair was impossibly tousled, his cheeks flushed, his shirt showing way too much of his chest while his entire body seemed tense to a breaking point. He looked a bit like a mad professor who had been desperately trying to solve a complex mathematical problem. 

For a second they stood frozen, John with his left hand raised to knock, now almost against Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock, whose body vibrated with tension, looming over John. 

“Oh,” Sherlock finally said, his voice rough. 

John exhaled and dropped his hand. “Hey.”

Sherlock took a step back, but he still blocked the door. 

“I would like to talk to you,” John tried. “But if you need me to go, I’ll go.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged and he seemed to relax minutely. He cleared his throat nervously. “No, it’s … it’s fine.” He frowned and then stepped aside as if he had only just realised that he was standing in the door. “Come in. Do you want anything?” He started pacing again. “Mrs Hudson probably forced you to have biscuits and tea but you haven’t had dinner yet, have you? I could order something. Sit down,” he made an elaborate gesture towards the sofa and turned as if to walk into the kitchen but then thought better of it and turned around again, a hand in his hair. “No, you’ve had too much tea already. Do you want some milk? Water? I might have some. Or beer. I, erm, I have some Guinness, if you want to have a beer.” He walked on, looked out of the window for a moment before turning back and making his way to the fireplace, avoiding to look at John. “See, I’m not sure how much food I have, but if all else fails I’m sure Mrs Hudson still has some roast beef from today’s lunch. She always has roast beef on Sundays.”

“Sherlock?” John interrupted him. He didn’t sit down. He couldn’t bring himself to put any more distance between them. “Stop talking for a moment?”

Sherlock turned around and looked at him. For the first time since he had opened the door to John, he really looked at him. He pressed his lips together as if to force himself to stop talking. When he opened his mouth next, nothing came out. 

“I need to say this to you. I know that you heard me in the kitchen. I don’t know how much you heard, but I … I owe you an apology.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

“Tell me what?” Sherlock asked, his voice very small. Did he still fear rejection?

John tried to find the right words to tell Sherlock how he felt, but somehow he didn’t know how to explain.

“You saved my life,” he started, watching helplessly as Sherlock’s expression grew dark.

“No, I mean, you saved me.” He took a step towards Sherlock. “You helped me so much. You were there for me when I didn’t know anyone could be there for me like this. Like you …” He stopped, wondering why his words seemed to make everything worse.

“I’m glad I could be of help,” Sherlock said, sounding resigned. “I am truly sorry I assumed. It was obvious from the beginning, really. I should have known. I’m sorry I put you in a position that …”

“What?” John didn’t understand what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock had heard him downstairs. He knew. Why did he not let him in?

“He’s a good man. I understand.”

John gaped at him. “What? No!” He crossed the room in a few quick steps and stopped right in front of Sherlock. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock looked away, his face grey, his eyes hard and his lips bloodless. He was still shaking. 

“Sherlock, look at me!”

Sherlock kept staring at the window. John took Sherlock’s hand and raised it to his lips, barely brushing his knuckles with a dry kiss. Sherlock’s head shot around and he pulled his hand back sharply. “I don’t need your pity.” The acid in his voice made John take a step back. He felt as if Sherlock had slapped him. 

For a moment they simply stood there, staring at each other. When Sherlock looked away, John was sure that he could see tears welling up in his eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch him.

“What did you hear me say?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, even if his legs were not. He looked at Sherlock’s hand which balled into a fist. It hurt to see him like this.

“You said that you love him.” All fight had gone from Sherlock and John felt relief so profound that he had to hold on to the back of a chair to steady himself.

“Oh Sherlock. I was talking about you!”

Sherlock stood very still for a long moment before he turned to look at John again. “What?”

John pressed a hand across his mouth to keep back a strangled noise between a sob and laughter. Finally he trusted himself to speak. “I was telling Mrs Hudson that I’m … I …,” John felt colour rising to his face. Why was it so difficult to tell him, now that he finally listened? “Sherlock, I think I … fell in love with you. I know it’s been only a week, but I just … it just happened.” There it was, out in the open, laid down before Sherlock who did not seem to know how to process this information. Endless seconds ticked by as he stared at John. 

“You didn’t mean Jenson?”

“No,” John shook his head, feeling dizzy. “Of course not.”

“But Mycroft … and you, the two of you, you just. You touch each other all the time!”

John’s heart fluttered at the accusation. 

“We’re friends, Sherlock. He has a girlfriend. They are very happy together. She’s a model, working internationally. She was working all week and came down for the race. Had you stayed you could have met her.”

“But the file. Mycroft’s file.” Sherlock wiped the tears from his face and sniffled. John found it utterly endearing.

“I don’t care about his bloody file.”

“There are pictures. Yesterday. The party.” Sherlock’s ears were red and John tried to think of what he could possibly mean. 

“We were celebrating. He was a bit drunk.”

“He … kissed you.” Sherlock made an elaborate gesture with his hand as if to stress the profundity of such an act. He seemed adamant to prove that John and Jensen were involved somehow. 

John looked at him for a long moment before he shook his head. “This is how we kiss.” He stepped closer again and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder to plant a quick kiss on his lips. He had wanted to show him what it was like to kiss a friend or a brother. Somehow it didn’t quite work out that way with Sherlock. Even that small kiss made John realise that he was desperate to kiss Sherlock properly. He started breathing faster, looking at Sherlock’s flushed face, unable to control his own reaction to the kiss.

Sherlock’s eyes were huge and his chest was heaving, mirroring John's. 

“No,” John was breathless. “That’s not how it was. It was less …” 

Sherlock licked his lips and John forgot what he had wanted to say. 

“May I kiss you? I mean, really you?” John could barely speak, already intoxicated by the memory of Sherlock’s soft lips against his.

Sherlock nodded and inhaled sharply. John took another half step towards him until they almost touched, and then he raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek, his thumb stroking across a cheekbone. Sherlock exhaled noisily and leaned into his touch.

John felt his whole body tremble as he guided Sherlock’s face down, raising his own chin to meet him half way. He gasped at the first electric contact. Sherlock’s hand flew to his hip, fingers digging almost painfully into his skin. John brushed his lips against Sherlock’s again and again, feeling his whole body breaking out in goose flesh.

Then he pressed up harder, fitting his lips against Sherlock, letting his tongue seek contact. He gently sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock started shaking again. He turned his head and repeated what he had done, his tongue darting out to tickle Sherlock’s upper lip and Sherlock moaned loudly. The moan made John realise just how much he wanted him. How had he not known?

He slipped his hand from Sherlock’s face into his hair, holding him in place as his tongue pushed between Sherlock’s lips. When his own touched Sherlock’s tongue, John was positive that they wouldn’t be able to continue doing this standing up. Sherlock made sounds that made his knees weak and he had to force himself to remember to breathe.

When he pulled back, Sherlock followed him, pressing down harder, his arm sneaking around John’s back, pulling him in. When their bodies connected, John groaned and brought his other hand around Sherlock’s back to fist at his shirt. Sherlock licked at the corner of his mouth and then sucked at John’s lower lip. “Oh my god,” John gasped against Sherlock’s mouth, prompting him to place his other hand against the small of John’s back and pull. 

John’s head dropped back with another groan and Sherlock began kissing down his throat. He felt the light stubble on Sherlock’s face tickle his skin. John was panting now, panting and entirely aware that he was hard against Sherlock’s leg and that Sherlock could definitely feel it just as he felt Sherlock against his stomach.

Sherlock bit at his pulse point and then moved up again, finding his lips and opening his mouth, giving John all the access he wanted. John stood on his toes to change the angle and Sherlock stumbled backwards. Something fell to the floor with a loud clang when his elbow hit the mantelpiece. Neither of them broke the kiss to see what it was.

John’s hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back so he could kiss along his jaw line, licking a long stripe from his collarbone to his ear, feeling Sherlock’s legs give for a moment. He repeated the action and Sherlock’s hand flew back, trying to find something behind himself to hold him up, but there was only the fireplace and no hold, so he dug his fingers into John’s hips, using him to hold himself up. 

John licked again, finding the spot that made Sherlock moan loudly, so he sucked at it. Sherlock cried out and pushed him away with surprising strength, his eyes closed tightly. 

John stumbled but he caught himself, staring at Sherlock who now pressed a hand to his groin, his face flushed, his neck sporting the beginning of a bruise. “I’m sorry,” he gasped and he pushed himself away from the fire place. “I need to …,” he rushed past John, almost tripping over his own feet and a few seconds later John heard the bathroom door being shut loudly. Sherlock didn’t lock the door, John’s brain noted unhelpfully, sending white heat down his back. He shuddered and dropped down in an armchair.

John closed his eyes and squeezed himself through his jeans. He didn’t know how far they would have gone had Sherlock not stopped him. He knew that his hands had been very close to moving down, and his open shirt had been tempting him all along. Well, chances were that they’d repeat this kind of thing sometime in the future. He chuckled and let himself imagine Sherlock in the bathroom, finishing off what they had started. 

God, the kiss had been incredible. 

Sherlock being vocal was something that surprised him. The few moments he had allowed himself to think of Sherlock in connection with sex had been selfish. He hadn’t thought of how Sherlock would react to being touched. He dearly hoped he would get the chance to learn all about Sherlock’s vocal and physical responses. 

As he sat there in Sherlock’s living room he calmed down gradually. He hoped that Mrs Hudson was still watching TV and that she had not heard them. He checked on what had crashed off the mantel piece and started giggling when he saw that it was Sherlock’s trophy. How had he missed that huge cup was beyond him. But then again, he hadn’t really paid attention to anything but Sherlock once he had stepped into the room. He stood and walked over to the cup. It had a dent in its side and he touched it gently. Somehow he couldn’t feel sorry for causing that dent.

He exhaled slowly, trying to take stock of where he was. Sherlock had been so nervous, trying desperately not to be upset by what he thought would be bad news. He considered how overwhelmed Sherlock was right now. Mrs Hudson had suggested that he’d need time to think, and instead of coming to terms with John’s feelings for him he had spent that hour trying to work himself up to a point where he could at least face John and his supposed rejection.

And then he had gone and kissed Sherlock just moments after he had learned what John felt for him. Sherlock hadn’t had time to think about it at all and now he was desperately turned on and probably entirely confused and John wished he could have found another way to make him see. But he couldn’t regret the kiss. The way Sherlock had kissed him back, his need, his way of taking what he wanted, was finally compatible with the first impression he had had of Sherlock.

But there was something else which nagged at his conscience. If Victor Trevor had been his only friend and he had been rejected, had Sherlock ever been in a relationship afterwards? Had he been able to trust anyone enough to open up to? Had he kissed anyone before? Had he ever been in a physical relationship with anyone?

John had had his fair share of relationships, both with men and women, but considering Sherlock’s personal history, it could well be that John had just overwhelmed Sherlock with something he had no experience in. They had a lot to talk about.

There were no noises coming out of the bathroom at all, John noticed. He had expected running water or anything to give away what Sherlock was doing. Well, John was pretty sure he knew what he was doing, but the silence was disconcerting. For a moment John was anxious that he could have left through his bedroom and escaped through the window. But that would be silly, wouldn’t it? Yet not impossible, if he needed time to be alone.

John inhaled deeply and stood up, readjusting himself in his underwear, and walked into the corridor. He carefully knocked on the bathroom door. “Sherlock? Are you okay? I’m sorry if that was too much. I really am. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. I promise.”

He heard a noise from inside that he couldn’t define. He didn’t want to interrupt him, in case he would catch him with his hands down his trousers, but he was getting worried. “Just come out when you are ready, okay? I’ll be here. On the couch, I mean.”

He was about to go back into the living room when the door opened an inch, then two, then three. Sherlock peeked out, ready to close the door at any moment. 

“Did you just kiss me?” he asked, his hand reaching out to touch his shoulder lightly, his eyes raking over John’s face, stopping at his lips. 

“I did.” John was surprised. Sherlock’s lips were still red from the kiss.

Sherlock exhaled shakily. “Did you just kiss me like you would kiss someone who is not just a … friend?”

John’s face lit up with a smile. “I did.”

“I didn’t just imagine that?”

“Just how vivid is your imagination?” John asked, wondering whether Sherlock had imagined being kissed by him before.

“Quite,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat, looking bashful. 

John tried not to think about what that meant. “Do you want to come out?”

Sherlock opened the door a little wider. “I’m sorry I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just that … I thought that … is this truly happening? You’re here?” He trembled, John noticed.

He smiled and held out a hand. “I am.”

Sherlock opened the door fully. John could tell by the fact that his shirt was not tucked in anymore that he had probably finished himself off. He sniffed and forced himself to look at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock tentatively took his hand, once more wrapping his long fingers around John’s smaller hand. John stepped forward and pressed a small kiss to his lips.

“It’s more complicated than I thought,” John said after the kiss. “I thought that I could show you how I would kiss Jenson, but it’s not the same.”

“Why not?” 

John grinned and leaned closer again. Sherlock leaned forward to receive another kiss. “With him it’s just like a hug or a punch. It’s normal. Nothing to get excited about. But with you I can’t imagine stopping. God, I’m so glad I get to kiss you.”

Sherlock smiled and John pulled him out of the bathroom. “Let’s talk, okay? There are a few things I need to know.”

“You said you are in love with me?” Sherlock asked again, making John wonder how much of an oddity that seemed to Sherlock. 

“I think I fancied you from the moment I first saw you, stepping out of your car, all sure of yourself. I don't think I realised how much I already liked you then. You were so extraordinary and yet you noticed me.”

“Noticed you? Are you serious? You stood out on that track. The first person I had met in years whose eyes were clear and who was searching.”

“Searching?”

“For adventure. For healing. For an answer as to why an idiot like me had snuck out to drive a car to bits. You were personally offended and yet impressed. I liked that.”

“You were so beautiful. You are so beautiful,” John said it to his face, breathless with the sheer magnitude of it all.

Sherlock blushed again, but he wasn’t full of wide-eyed wonder anymore. He was slowly coming to terms with the situation and it made John giddy. “I wanted to spend every minute of this week with you. After the pub, I really wanted to ask you up.”

“I wanted you to ask me,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “But I was terrified that you wouldn’t, so I made sure that you didn’t.”

“We’re such idiots.” John looked up at Sherlock’s face. “I’m so sorry.” 

They both still stood in the middle of the living room. It would be awkward to sit down now, but John felt that sitting down on the couch could potentially lead to more kissing and he really liked that particular notion. But there was something else he needed out in the open first.

John inhaled deeply. “Your brother, he told me about Victor.” He saw Sherlock’s face fall, but he kept on talking. “I am so sorry he did that to you. He … I mean, there are other ways of letting someone know that you are not interested. I am so sorry that he treated you like that and I am sorry that you had to go through this again. I just didn’t know.”

Sherlock looked away and John pulled him into a hug. Sherlock stood too straight again for it to be comfortable, but when John kissed his neck, he exhaled and melted into the embrace. “I don’t know what exactly happened, but he implied that he treated you abominably.”

A pained sound escaped Sherlock. “The only hope I had was that you’d understand. That you wouldn’t be intimidated and disgusted by … a man, like Victor was.” He scoffed. “I wasn’t a man back then. I was a boy. God, I was so naïve. At least I knew you wouldn’t … because I knew from your file that you … I felt terrible knowing, because I had no right, but at the same time it was what gave me hope. Though I didn’t really believe that you would … that you …,” Sherlock stopped speaking and John felt his lips against his skin.

“Your brother scares me.”

“He has a bit of a power complex,” Sherlock admitted, gladly taking John’s offered way out of talking about his feelings.

John raised a hand to the nape of his neck and gently stroked the soft skin with his thumb. He shuddered at the sensation and Sherlock pushed harder against him. When Sherlock’s hand pressed against his aching shoulder blade he winced. Despite the desperation of the moment and the pain, he felt absolutely elated to be able to simply touch Sherlock like this. “You don’t have to talk about it now, but if you ever feel like working through your anger, I’ll be here for you. That’s what I wanted to say, earlier, before I realised that you had misunderstood …”

Sherlock kissed his heated skin again and John held on tighter. “I wanted to say thank you for cheering me up and for making me believe in myself again. And I want to do the same for you. If I can, in any way, help you work through what happened. For days I wondered why you were so good at helping me during my attacks until I realised that you knew because you …,” he inhaled deeply, trying not to be too happy about the warmth and solidity of Sherlock’s body against his own, “you used to get them, too. For different reasons, of course, but you knew how to act. What to do. You knew how I felt. I just … I just want to be here for you, too.”

Sherlock sniffed and John realised that he was crying. He inhaled shakily and stroked Sherlock’s back. “You made me feel alive again and I want you to know that I don’t care about the mistakes you made in the past. I really don’t. That’s why I came to you before the qualifying.” 

“I almost killed him, John. I was so angry.”

“I know. I understand.” Saying it out loud made him realise that he did understand, even though he knew it was probably wrong to feel that way. But feeling so drawn to Sherlock and getting along with him so well, he had not managed to open up to him because he feared rejection and an end to the best thing that had happened to him in years. If he had told Sherlock and he would have reacted with mockery and disgust, he knew he would have been heartbroken. And for him it would have been an entirely different situation than for Sherlock, who apparently hadn’t had anyone else in his life at that time. He wondered how Victor had truly felt about him. It didn’t seem plausible that he would be so close with Sherlock and then treat him so badly.

“When you apologised and, well, hugged me,” Sherlock cleared his throat but didn’t move away. John was glad to be dragged away from his dark thoughts by Sherlock. “I tried to understand what you meant. I was certain that you were sincere about your apology. I didn’t allow myself to think about the possibility that maybe you could have meant us. Well, I imagined it after all, if only for a second, and that didn’t do me any good.”

John inhaled sharply. “The second you lost control of the car?” He didn’t quite know what to do with that information. Had Sherlock lost pole because he had allowed himself to imagine that they could be together? “Is that why you walked out on us after?”

Sherlock pulled back, a long hand gently touching John’s face. He looked almost shocked, his eyes following in the wake of his hand, moving across his features, down his neck and on to his chest where it rested once more against John’s sternum. Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “You touched yourself,” he suddenly seemed excited. He wiped at his face. John snorted and Sherlock looked momentarily embarrassed. “If I had only asked you then. It could have been so easy.”

“I felt so embarrassed that you saw. I felt so exposed. That’s why I thought you might be annoyed or just … I’m not sure. I thought I was so obvious and you stared right at it.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face. “I guess I did, but what I saw I tried to explain away. And when I saw you with him … Mycroft had sent me your file and there was so much evidence that you and Jenson …”

“That’s why you didn’t want to be in the same room as him. You were jealous,” John teased, placing his own hand on top of Sherlock’s which still rested against his chest. “But you couldn’t help but like him.”

“You liked him, so I had to like him, too.”

“And then you liked him all on your own.”

Sherlock huffed, apparently unwilling to discuss Jenson any further. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” 

“Is this okay for you? I mean, the kissing and everything?”

Sherlock snorted. “Okay? Well, yes. It was alright.”

John grinned at him. “Would you care to repeat that sometime? You know, test drive?”

Sherlock laughed out loud and grabbed John’s shirt front, pulling him close. John gasped into the kiss.

“Promise me one thing?”

Sherlock pulled away to be able to look at him. “What?”

“Tell me when I’m going too fast? If it’s too much? And I mean everything. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything or allow me to do anything that you are not comfortable with. I don’t know how much … I mean, how … your experience. I just. Don’t know.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long time. John felt himself blush under his intense gaze.

“Promise?”

Sherlock nodded. “I promise. And my experience is … umm, mostly theoretical.” He smirked. 

“Thank you.”

“Would you …,” Sherlock cleared his throat and rubbed his face with both hands. He was very obviously being shy about something and John felt his heart leap. He dearly hoped that Sherlock would not find all of this too awkward. “Hmm?”

“Will you stay here tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. 26 chapters to the first snog. that's a record for me :p  
> thanks for your patience :) xx


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

John’s eyes settled on his hands. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who felt shy about that particular idea. “If you want me to?” Once he found the courage to look back up he saw Sherlock looking at him with an intensity that took his breath away.

“I do.”

“Okay.”

“Good, umm.” Sherlock scratched the back of his neck and looked around, ready to spring into action, when is eyes fell on the trophy. “Oh.”

“I think it’s a bit dented,” John commented, unhelpfully. Sherlock picked it up from the coffee table and gently ran his finger along the dent. Then he huffed out a laugh. “It fits us much better now.”

“Us?” 

Sherlock nodded the answer to John’s question. “Dented, but not broken.”

John chewed on that thought for a moment, staring at the shining trophy in Sherlock’s hands. 

He looked good, holding it like this. Conscious of what it really meant. “You actually won the race.” Saying it out loud brought back the feeling of absolute elation he had felt before he had been kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock grinned. “I did, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry for jumping on you in front of everyone.” John very much felt like repeating his action right then. “I know it wasn’t my place to do so.”

“I …,” Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so he just shrugged. Then he put the trophy down again, clearing his throat. “I knew Mycroft had to be wrong. Just then, in that moment, I was absolutely sure. Of course I am very good at talking myself out of things I am certain about. Mostly things that concern you it seems.”

“I wanted to kiss you so much. The way you looked at me,” John felt white heat in his stomach just thinking about it. “It probably would have killed both of our careers right there and then if I had, but I could have saved you a few hours of, well, of what happened after. I’m so sorry. I should have clarified to Mycroft, but I just couldn’t stay there for a minute longer.”

“I know.” Sherlock nodded, taking a hesitant step towards him. “Your shoulder is hurt.”

“Hmm?” John was surprised. He had all but forgotten about his pain. He rolled his shoulder and winced. “I, umm, ran into a door.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Sherlock’s voice was calm and deep and he was definitely being sexy on purpose. John found that he would be absolutely helpless if Sherlock ever used that voice on him to get anything from him or to get him to do something. 

Sherlock took another step and reached out, his fingertips resting against John’s collar bone before moving up. His hand pressed lightly against his trapezius and John groaned. He was glad now that Sherlock had not grabbed his shoulder when they had kissed, because despite the arousal he would have dropped to the floor screaming if he had. Sherlock had probably been aware of it from when he first looked at him properly. 

Sherlock’s fingers wandered lower while his thumb rested against the skin of his neck. John suddenly hated his own shirt. He wanted Sherlock’s hand fully on his skin, even if it currently caused pain great enough to make him see stars. He closed his eyes tightly when Sherlock pressed down again, harder this time. “I think you should see a doctor about that. I’ll get you some pain killers,” he said and turned towards the kitchen.

John wondered whether Aki was already back in London. Probably not. He’d be out celebrating with the rest. 

Sherlock returned with a small bottle of white pills. “Take one only, since you drank whisky.”

“How do you know that I drank?”

Sherlock smiled and ran his thumb across his own lips. “Glenfiddich. 30 years. Mrs Hudson wanted to celebrate.” Then he sobered up. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep if you’re in pain?”

John’s brain unhelpfully countered that sleeping wasn’t necessarily a priority just then but he did not voice these thoughts. “I didn’t really pay attention. It was good. I think it was. And how do you recognise a whisky just from a kiss while you don't know beer at all.”

Sherlock smirked and went into the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water. “My upbringing. Are you hungry? You should eat something.”

“No, I’m alright, thank you. I don’t think I could eat right now. Nerves and all.”

Sherlock exhaled noisily. “You’re nervous, too?”

“Of course I am. I’m in your flat after professing my stupidity to ...”

“Love,” Sherlock interrupted. “You said love and then you kissed me.” He looked the happiest John had ever seen him. 

John laughed and shook his head. “Fucking hell, yes, love. Jesus. But yes, I am nervous. It was worse earlier. The kissing helped. A bit.”

“Is being nervous a good thing in a situation like this?”

John was surprised by how earnest is question was. “I don’t know. I guess so? Adrenaline?”

“That’s why it felt so intense?”

“Hmm?”

“The kiss. You. Everything.” He ruffled his own hair as if he was full of energy but didn’t know what to do with it. "But then it changed. I don't know what changed. I wasn't nervous for a while."

John nodded. "Yeah, the kissing definitely helped."

“You lied to me,” Sherlock suddenly informed John, nodding to himself to stress the point he was trying to make.

“What did I say?”

Sherlock grinned and stepped into John’s personal space. “You said listening to the fans is the best feeling in the world.”

John laughed and closed the small gap Sherlock had left between them. “Well. I guess it’s debatable.”

The kiss was less intense than the first one had been, but John could feel how Sherlock tried to be as close to him as possible. He forced his hands to only loosely hold on to Sherlock’s shoulders. If he didn’t pay attention, his brain would quickly bring back the images he had tried to suppress for the better part of the week and he wasn't sure how to handle them yet. 

“Where is my cup?” Despite the light burning sensation of Sherlock’s evening stubble against his skin and the hand on his hip that had been very clearly moving around his body, he had realised that his own trophy was missing. He also possibly wasn't ready to go where his body was trying to make him go. 

“I was going to give it to you tomorrow,” Sherlock said, a blush rising to his cheeks once again. 

John noted that if what Sherlock said was true, he didn’t need to fear that Sherlock might disappear anytime soon. Even if they hadn’t talked, Sherlock had planned on seeing him anyway. The thought made him giddy. 

“Where is it?”

Sherlock shrugged and turned away, picking up his own dented one to place it back on the mantelpiece. 

“Did you lose it? Sell it? Give it away to the poor?”

“It’s in the bedroom.” Sherlock looked like a child whose mother had found out he was hoarding chocolate under his bed. 

“What did you do with it?” John had to chuckle. It seemed as if Sherlock only got worked up about entirely normal things whereas he barely felt that he had done anything wrong when he behaved in an utterly unexpected way.

“I just wanted to have you close for the night, since I didn’t think you’d … erm, come here,” he said quietly, looking up at John through his eyelashes. John felt breathless. Sherlock was so utterly beautiful like this, he knew he’d never stop teasing him if he got a bashful reaction out of Sherlock.

“Can I … see your bedroom? Since the real me is spending the night and not just the cup?”

Sherlock’s blush became a bit more intense and he turned away from John, walking down the corridor to his bedroom. “It’s nothing special, really. I mean, it’s my bed and … the usual.”

John followed him and felt an intense sense of homecoming when he saw the unmade bed.

The room was less crowded than the living room, but Sherlock’s love of motorsports was still very much visible. A print of a first generation T-Model motor hung above his bed and there were several art prints of high class race cars on the other walls. The mechanics’ trophy stood in the window. 

“I’ll have to take that to work tomorrow.”

“They should let you keep it.”

“Everyone earned it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, John. You did.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say, but it’s not true. Everyone helped in their own way, so it belongs to everyone on the team, including you.” He had barely finished his sentence before his eyes fell on Sherlock’s skeleton helmet which sat next to the bed, the googly-eyes still stuck to its visor. He crossed the room and sat down on the bed, ignoring the butterflies of anticipation that came with the realisation that he was sitting on Sherlock’s bed while Sherlock, who had asked him to spend the night, stood only a few feet away.

He picked up the helmet and kissed it. “My nightmare was actually about this, in a way,” John admitted. It seemed much easier talking about it now than it had been when he had called Sherlock in the middle of the night. “It was a silly dream but I saw you die and it terrified me.”

Sherlock sat down next to him, hesitantly taking the helmet from John and putting it next to him on the bed. “I couldn’t sleep. I had read about your accident.” He looked away and John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s. He could see the happy curl of his lip, though he didn’t turn his head to face him. 

“After Victor, I didn’t want to drive anymore,” he admitted. “I was so angry that whenever I sat in a car I felt compelled to drive it off the road. Mycroft made me talk to a therapist. Well, the therapist talked. I had nothing to say.”

“What changed?”

“I found the race report when I hacked into Lestrade’s computer.” 

John watched Sherlock’s unmoving face. “You did what?”

“He was out for a while and I wanted to know if he kept any correspondences with my brother. I knew they were communicating somehow.”

“Of course you did,” John squeezed his hand to make sure Sherlock understood he wasn’t really joking. 

“The report said that the brakes had stopped working when I came around the track. That was what they believed. I don’t think that’s what happened. I can’t remember stepping down on the brakes. I just remember being angry. I just blanked. But at least I knew they did not blame me.”

“Did anything happen to you?”

Sherlock turned to him and pointed at a small scar on the right side of his bottom lip. “A few stitches, nothing more. I don’t remember the treatment or anything that happened that day. The next thing I knew was that Victor was …” He inhaled deeply and then shook his head minutely as if to push away his memories. “I read about your accident when it happened, but I couldn’t remember the details. I wanted to know what made you so afraid of driving and now I understand. When you called, I knew why you did before you said a word. I’ve never understood anyone as well as you.” He looked at John with sad eyes. “I thought I knew him, but I was wrong, so I couldn’t trust myself with you, even if I wanted to.”

“Can I hold you?” John asked, knowing that his first night with Sherlock would be more about pain than pleasure. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Get into bed,” John said with a small smile while he kicked off his shoes. 

Sherlock gave him a look that left no room for interpretation and John giggled. He unbuttoned his shirt and Sherlock stared at John’s fingers as they moved down his body. When John tried to take his shirt off, he groaned in pain and dropped his arm. “Fuck,” he murmured. 

“I can take you to a hospital,” Sherlock offered, but John shook his head. 

“I’m fine,” he said, stubbornly trying again. The pain was worrying him, but he would not leave this flat anytime soon if he could help it. 

He tried to push off his shirt, but had to give up. “Help?” he asked Sherlock, who obliged and helped him out of it. When John didn’t make another move to remove any more of his clothing, Sherlock went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He came back with a small pack of dental floss.

“I hope this is okay.”

“I’ll bring my toothbrush tomorrow,” John said without really thinking about what he was saying.

Only when Sherlock stared at him, his breath quickening, did he realise that in his mind he saw himself spending every night in the foreseeable future in Sherlock’s flat. “If that’s alright with you, of course,” he added, somewhat belatedly. 

Sherlock sniffed and rubbed his face, trying to hide a smile. “I’ll let you know tomorrow morning.”

John grinned and got up to floss and wash his face. When he came back, Sherlock had changed into pyjamas, had put two glasses of water on the night stand and was fluffing up the cushions. 

“Which side do you sleep on?” John asked, holding on to the normalcy he knew could turn into desperate longing any second now. 

“I move a lot, so all of them, I guess.” He put his phone down on the left night stand and John pulled his own out of his pocket and placed it next to it. Then he pulled off his jeans and socks and put them on a chair. He’d keep his t-shirt since Sherlock was wearing one as well. If it got too hot, he could always take it off. 

He climbed onto the bed, grunting at the pain in his shoulder. Sherlock frowned, obviously unhappy at John’s discomfort. “Sit,” he told him and John sat in the middle of the bed. 

Sherlock moved to kneel behind him and pulled off John’s t-shirt. John bit his lip and tried not to get too excited. 

Sherlock placed both hands on his shoulder and gently pressed down. It should hurt, but all John felt was warmth and excitement at being touched by Sherlock. Then he pressed harder and John gasped. Sherlock’s fingers started probing and John hissed with pain when he found a particularly sensitive spot. 

“Have you been experiencing any unusual stress recently?” Sherlock asked and John giggled. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he grinned. “Has anything special happened last week?”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his spine and moved to his right shoulder, pressing down much harder. John almost fell against Sherlock. “Oh god!”

“Is that okay?”

“Fuck, yes, please keep going!” John knew that there was no return now. Sherlock, who had reacted to physical contact with something resembling disgust, knew exactly how to find tense spots and massage them away. He knew he was about to get to know Sherlock all over again and this time he’d show Sherlock who he was, even if it meant showing sides of himself that he’d rather leave undiscovered. 

Sherlock did as he was told and kept massaging John and John felt himself melt against Sherlock’s hands. With the tension easing in his right shoulder, he could feel that his left relaxed as well. 

Once Sherlock seemed satisfied that John was feeling better, he moved back to his left, starting to massage below John’s shoulder blade. While he was still probing his back for knots and tense muscle, John noticed that his right hand started to move across his back to places that weren’t tense. He involuntairily held his breath. When his left pressed down on a sore but not entirely painful spot and his right moved up his neck to stroke the skin at his hairline, John let himself drop back against Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock’s arms immediately wrapped around him and he hugged him tightly. “Better?”

“Much,” John murmured, remembering that he had wanted to hold Sherlock, but that he absolutely did not object to their current position. 

“Do you want to lie down?” Sherlock sounded shy again.

“Yes,” John nodded, feeling gooseflesh rising on his skin. 

Sherlock let go of him and started pulling at the sheets so John could slip under them. Then he went to turn off the light. “Do you want your t-shirt back?” he asked, before he lay down. 

“No, it’s fine. If that’s okay with you?” He looked at Sherlock who seemed pleased with himself. 

Sherlock joined John under the sheets and moved closer. “Turn around?”

John looked at him for a long moment before he did. Sherlock snuggled close and kissed his injured shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”

John smiled. “You can be sorry for being a terrible tease.”

“What did I do?” Sherlock pressed his face against the nape of John’s neck. 

“You took your clothes off right there in the box and then you poured water all over yourself.”

“Oh.”

“Did you do that on purpose?”

Sherlock moved even closer until he was properly spooning him. John wondered whether Sherlock had ever spent the night like this with anyone in his life. It made him giddy to imagine that he was his first to lie like this with him.

“More of a test,” Sherlock said. “I just wanted to see if you’d tell me to behave.”

“Behave?” John chuckled. “It was a bit late for that, wasn’t it?”

“And I was quite sweaty, too,” he argued, nuzzling John’s neck. 

“I can’t believe that it was only a week ago. I’ve known you for only a week.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and said nothing. 

“Do you think I would have had the guts to tell you if your brother hadn’t told me?” John was thinking aloud more than actually asking Sherlock.

“I don’t know. What did Mycroft tell you?” Sherlock answered, his voice making John shiver.

He smiled. “That you were falling in love with me. He sounded like that was the worst thing he had ever told anyone, but that’s what he said.”

Sherlock grunted. 

“He tried to scare me away. I think he really did believe what he told you.”

“Probably. Or he could have tried to keep me away from you.”

“Why is that?”

“Broken dreams and all that …”

“Dented,” John smiled. “Imagine if he hadn’t told me and if he hadn’t called you. It would have been a very uncomfortable party,” John grinned. “I think I would have drank enough to forget my fear and just kissed you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah, me, too. It would have seemed like a drunk thing.”

“Not that you didn’t drink before you kissed me …”

John chuckled. “Mrs Hudson insisted.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him momentarily. John pressed back against him, feeling entirely too happy to lie in Sherlock’s bed and arms like this.

“I had planned on kissing you long before I drank,” he added. “God, I think everyone knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jenson. He laughed at me for being stupid. Apparently he knew all along. Mike knew, too. Lestrade already asked me for the dirty details before you had even come back here.”

“Dirty details, huh?” Sherlock pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck. John shivered and pressed his eyes shut. 

“He said you could stay and work with me, if that’s what you want.”

“For McLaren?”

“Hmm.”

“With you?”

“Hmm.”

“For how long?”

John smiled. “He didn’t say.”

“I’d get to work with you.”

John’s smile grew wider. “Yeah.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “I’ll draw up a list with conditions then.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“He also said I could take off a few days to sort things out with you.”

Sherlock snorted. “He’s just glad that somebody else is taking care of me.”

“Will you let me take care of you?” John stroked up and down Sherlock’s arm, feeling the wiry muscles and the soft skin and the heat that radiated from him. 

“It’s not an easy task.”

“I don’t do easy,” John turned his head but couldn’t quite turn around because of Sherlock’s embrace and his bad shoulder. “I’d very much like to be there for you for … everything you need.”

“Thank you. I don’t think I said that yet.” He pushed himself up so he could kiss John’s lips. “Thank you for not walking away when I did.”

“Yeah, about that,” John placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s which lay against his chest. He squeezed gently. “What happened after the qualifying. It seemed to me that you didn’t really know where you were when I found you.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and caught John’s thumb with his own, effectively holding on to yet another part of him. “During qualifying I just … I thought that your words and the hug and everything that happened before … that you possibly could … I don’t know. I just imagined you stading there, waiting for me. But you were more than just … you. I just imagined getting out of the car and you would embrace me again and … and you were. You almost were. But I was too distracted and I was afraid that being distracted would risk everything and it did, in a way. And I knew I couldn’t face you then. I knew you’d be concerned and ask what had happened and I would have told you the truth. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t face …,” he was silent for a long moment. “I couldn’t face you then. You’d have been understanding, maybe even touched that I would have made a mistake like this because I had thought about you and then you would have told me that I had been wrong to think that you could possibly think of me in that way ...”

“But I wouldn’t have.”

“I know.” Sherlock sighed. “I know that _now_. But I couldn’t face it then. I couldn’t talk to you or anyone else, because I would have told anyone who would have asked me.”

“That’s why you left your phone?”

“You would have called me. I know you would have.”

“And that’s why you didn’t want to get into my car.”

“I was so close to telling you.”

“Why did you talk to the press then?”

“I called Mycroft. He reassured me that you couldn’t possibly be interested.”

“So you tried to make it up to us by being nice to the press?”

“In a way.”

“Why did you make a mistake during the race then?”

Sherlock made an undignified noise and John tried to turn around. Sherlock loosened his grip a bit, and John grunted when he turned onto his back. 

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

Sherlock hid his face in his pillow. 

John grinned and stroked Sherlock’s arm which still lay across his chest. 

“I had to think of the ceremony. The champagne. I knew you’d be up there with me.”

“That made you almost lose to Felipe?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “I imagined the shower afterwards.”

John grinned at him. “I take that as a compliment,” he decided, turning back onto his side. Sherlock snuggled close again and exhaled slowly against John’s neck.

“You’re quite attractive,” he murmured and John was glad that Sherlock couldn’t see his face just then.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad looking yourself.”

Sherlock remained quiet, his arms tightening minutely around John. “I …,” he started and John’s heart began to beat harder. He could feel it because of the pressure of Sherlock’s hand against his chest. Sherlock cleared his throat and pressed another kiss to his skin. “I … um … I think we should sleep.”

John chuckled and closed his eyes. “Yeah. Me, too.” 

He fell asleep with a smile on his face, knowing very well that Sherlock had wanted to say something else and that he had understood what John meant with his reply, because he felt his heart beat, too.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

He dreamt that Sherlock didn’t win. He came in tenth and everyone was happy that he had made it through but already commenting on how they wanted Kevin back. John found Sherlock in an empty room, sitting by himself, drinking water from a paper cup. There were already a handful of empty paper cups scattered about him on the floor and as soon as he had finished the one he was drinking, a new one appeared next to him. 

He looked up to see John in the door. Without a word, he put down the empty paper cup and stood, opening his overall. He did not wear anything underneath it and John closed the door behind him, staring at Sherlock’s naked chest. 

Sherlock took a moment to wrestle out of his overall until he stood naked in front of him. John tried desperately to look at his face. Sherlock stared back at John and picked up the new paper cup, tipping it over. The water didn’t stop flowing and soon Sherlock was completely drenched. The water ran from Sherlock’s body and soon John felt it against his toes. When he looked down on himself, he found that he was naked, too.

He woke up, blinking hard in the weak light of the unfamiliar room. The curtains were not drawn and the orange light from the street was just bright enough to allow him to see the outline of the furniture in the room. 

A noise had woken him up, he remembered now. A gasp. He turned onto his back and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing him. Something about his posture wasn’t right. Then he heard another gasp and he saw Sherlock’s shoulders shaking. His left hand was buried in the sheets, holding on tightly, as if he tried to anchor himself to the bed. 

“Sherlock,” his voice was a rough whisper. 

Sherlock stilled immediately.

“Are you okay?”

He half turned, but didn’t look at John. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock huffed. “I’m sorry.” He turned away from John, his shoulders hunched now. 

John struggled for a moment to sit up. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and then crawled over to Sherlock. Once he was close enough to touch him he saw that Sherlock had most definitely not been crying, which has been his initial fear. Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms were pushed down to his ankles. John grinned and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he bit his lip and fought against the curiosity to get a proper look at Sherlock’s cock. 

Sherlock huffed, quite obviously embarrassed. 

“I’m serious,” John whispered against his neck and held him tighter. “Keep going.”

Sherlock moaned in response.

“Do you want me to touch you?” John offered, trying very hard to keep his hands above Sherlock’s navel. 

Sherlock shuddered and inhaled sharply. “I … I don’t know.”

“Then take your time,” John kissed his shoulder and pulled Sherlock’s t-shirt up to he could put his hand on his skin. He pushed until he could squeeze his chest, drawing a grunt from Sherlock. “Can I take this off?” he asked breathlessly. 

“No, please. I’m too …” Sherlock shuddered again. 

“Close?” John whispered against Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock’s right hand began to move again and John held him, kneeling behind him while his right arm stroked up and down his chest. His left hand sneaked down to caress his inner thigh. Sherlock’s left hand grabbed John’s thigh in turn and his fingers dug into his skin, making John grunt in pain and arousal. “Oh Sherlock,” he gasped, breathless when he sped up, feeling his whole body going rigid when Sherlock came with a desperate sound. 

For a long while the only noise in the room was the ragged breathing of both men. John pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck while Sherlock rode out his orgasm in his arms. Finally Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

John huffed. “For what?”

“I didn’t want to wake you. I just … I woke up and you were still here and my body just …”

“That was incredibly hot.”

“I think I bruised you,” Sherlock’s hand flattened against his thigh. It was too dark to really read his face. 

“Are you apologising for that as well?” John grinned and released him from his arms. 

Sherlock looked at him. “I don’t know. Should I?”

“No.” John leaned in and kissed him gently. “You could have woken me up, you know?”

“I need to … umm,” Sherlock held up his right hand which glistened with his come. John nodded and sat back. 

Sherlock switched on the light in the bathroom and John closed his eyes against it. He couldn’t help but notice that his movements to bring himself off had been very precise. There was a rush behind it, the need to get it over with and he imagined himself taking all the time in the world to make Sherlock sweaty and desperate.

John looked down on his own erection, pressing against his underwear. He had been okay with ignoring his arousal earlier when Sherlock had panicked and fled into the bathroom and the conversation after had helped to calm him down. Now he knew he couldn’t just leave it be. He had almost come just holding Sherlock like this and he knew that he’d need only very little attention now to do so.

Sherlock walked back into the room, his form framed by the bathroom light. John smiled and decided, contrarily to his previous thoughts, that he’d be fine just lying in his arms again, if that was what he wanted.

“What now?” John asked, trying to keep his hands away from his crotch. Sherlock’s eyes settled between his legs anyway. He licked his lips and John swallowed hard.

“Lie down?” Sherlock said, sounding breathless.

“How?”

“On your side.”

John did as he was told. He felt his heart in his throat and he bit his lip hard to keep from making an undignified noise. When Sherlock settled behind him, he let go of his breath and the whimper escaped him after all. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his hip and John pushed back against Sherlock’s lap. “Touch me, please!”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and his hand slowly edged forward, settling on John’s erection.

“No,” John found it hard to breathe for a moment. “Touch me!”

He felt Sherlock shudder behind him and he marvelled at the fact that this entire encounter felt more intimate and more exciting than he could remember any prelude to sex being. 

Sherlock slipped his hand under his shorts, his fingers curling around him carefully. John arched into his touch. “Oh god, yes.”

Sherlock’s thumb circled his head, pushing at his foreskin, and then he held on tighter. John knew he’d need lube or at least saliva to get more comfortable, but right now he just needed to be held like this, listening to Sherlock’s excited breathing and trying to not control Sherlock’s movement. To give him more room he pushed down his shorts.

“What happened in the shower?” He asked, his voice breaking when Sherlock moved his thumb again.

“Nothing. You were just naked.” Sherlock admitted.

John could feel that he was growing hard against him, only the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms separating them. “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry, I just … just to think of seeing you naked. It …”

“Oh god, keep doing that,” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and held on to him tightly.

“Is that alright?”

“Yes, yes, it’s alright,” John chuckled and squirmed against Sherlock. “More than alright.”

“I wanted to touch you.”

“When?” John squeezed his eyes closed. 

“All the time,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “When you were driving.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Really?”

“You looked like you belonged there, behind the wheel. You didn’t think about what you were doing.”

“I was scared out of my mind,” John argued, finding it impossible to keep his hips still. Sherlock barely moved.

Sherlock’s breathing grew faster. “Your car is so beautiful and just to sit there, next to you ... If you had stopped the car off-road I would have …” he stopped, his hand moving now. 

“What? Sherlock, tell me!” John demanded, shaking with the need to come. 

Sherlock pressed his face against John’s aching shoulder and John grunted. “I can’t,” Sherlock murmured and John whined in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” John demanded.

“I’m sorry.”

His hand halted again.

“Oh my god!” John didn’t know what frustrated him more; Sherlock’s apparent need to apologise for everything he did or didn’t say or the fact that he was so close he wanted to cry while Sherlock didn't move his hand. Instead of waiting for Sherlock to speak up, John decided to share his own fantasy. “If I had stopped the car I would have given you a blow job that would make you feel me for days. And I would have you on the backseat fully clothed and ….” Sherlock moaned loudly and John could feel him stiffen behind him while his hand around him squeezed him rhythmically. Sherlock’s second orgasm took John over the edge, too. 

“Oh my god,” John repeated after he had calmed down a bit. Sherlock squirmed and John realised that he had probably spoiled Sherlock’s sheets. He tried turning around and Sherlock lifted his arm, giving him room to do so. Sherlock looked decidedly not sorry. 

John grinned at him. Sherlock grinned back. “Clean up?” John suggested and Sherlock groaned. “Alright,” he kissed John. “Did you just come up with that?”

“Well, it’s probably much less practical in reality than it is in my head, but yes. The thought is nice.”

“I won’t ever be able to be in your car without thinking about what you just said,” Sherlock admitted.

“Me neither,” John chuckled. “Come on, get up.”

They climbed off the bed and John grinned at the stain in Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms which the bathroom light revealed. He wet the edge of a towel and cleaned himself. Then he went back to wipe his come off the sheets. Despite it all, Sherlock had still managed to catch most of it in his hand and John shuddered at the thought. Sherlock only wore his t-shirt when he returned to the bathroom.

“Let me look at you,” he asked, tugging at Sherlock’s shirt.

“It’s almost four o’clock.”

John grinned. “And not at all relevant.”

Sherlock turned around and pulled off his t-shirt. His skin looked pale in the neon light of the bathroom. John took his time to just look at him. He saw the scars which Sherlock had mentioned on his list, which he hadn’t noticed in the box or on the morning after his night on the sofa. He saw a body which felt softer against his back than it had any right to be, judging from the edges and muscles that stood out under Sherlock’s skin. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered and then cleared his throat, blushing. 

Sherlock exhaled and stepped closer, tugging at John’s shorts. John chuckled and stepped back to shed his underwear, standing naked in the bathroom, feeling hot despite the cold tiles under his soles. 

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on his body and John noticed that he did not feel exposed. Sherlock took a tiny step closer and then another one and tentatively reached out for him. John moved towards him. Another half step and he was drawn into an embrace, skin to skin from head to toe and he held on tightly, feeling incredibly thankful for this moment of safety in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock yawned and John had to chuckle. Reluctantly, they let go of each other.

“Sleep naked?” John proposed and Sherlock shrugged. 

“If we have to.”

John giggled and kissed him gently. On his way out, Sherlock turned off the light and closed the bathroom door behind him, watching John climb into bed. He immediately pulled John against him once he had joined him under the sheets. “How is your shoulder?”

“It’s fine. For now.”

“Thank you.”

John slipped his foot between Sherlock’s ankles. “What for?”

“This.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Not the term that came to my mind, but yes. It’s also nice.”

John giggled again and yawned. “I’m really glad I’m here with you.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock voice was very low. He yawned again and pressed a kiss to John's injured shoulder.

John lay awake for a while, listening as Sherlock’s breathing slowly calmed down. He did not want to think about Victor Trevor, but John couldn’t help but wonder how different Sherlock might be if things had gone differently between them. It would be a challenge to not hurt Sherlock, he knew that now, and he desperately wanted to protect him from pain. Seeing him so hurt and lost earlier had affected him deeply. 

He closed his eyes and tried to picture him after the race, trophy in his hands and a half smile on his face which disappeared as soon as the cameras focused on him. He had won that race. In his car. He had done the impossible. And now he held him in his arms, his breath puffing against his neck. Eventually he fell asleep, spending a long time in a liminal state, conscious of his thoughts and yet unable to steer them into any particular direction. This time, he didn't dream.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

The room was flooded in day light when John woke up. He was alone. “Sherlock?” 

He yawned and grunted when a sharp flash of pain ran from his shoulder up his neck and down his spine. It even hurt to breathe too deeply. “Fuck,” he whispered into the room.

John managed to get out of bed, feeling a little hungover. The tension of the last few days and the familiar ache in his shoulder had settled in his neck and brought on a headache and light nausea. He was familiar with the sensation and very much disliked being reminded of it. Months of constant pain had been enough for a lifetime. He found his shorts and pulled them on before he left the room, not wanting to assume that he was allowed to walk around naked in a flat that he barely knew.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, fully dressed, a cup in his hands. No phone, no computer, not even a newspaper anywhere near by. “Hey,” John smiled, stepped behind him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Morning. You okay?”

Sherlock turned around and looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded and responded with a tiny smile. “I’m fine.”

John switched on the kettle and noticed that it wasn’t warm. “How long have you been awake?”

“A few hours.”

“Did you eat? Do you want breakfast?”

“John. I … have a proposal to make.”

John cocked his head and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, wondering whether he had missed something in this whole scenario. “Okay?”

“We’ll go to your flat so you can change. Then I take you to Aki. We can buy breakfast on the way. Oh, and, umm, we also get your toothbrush.”

John grinned. “I have a better plan.”

“You do?” Sherlock looked a little unsure of himself. He had seemed unsure since John had walked into the kitchen, he realised.

“We go by my flat. I pack a bag which includes my toothbrush, then I make us breakfast, because I still have food in my fridge, and then we go and see Aki, if he will see me today.”

“He already confirmed. I told him you’d be in around 3.”

“What kind of bag should I pack?” John asked over the noise of the kettle. It switched off and he pulled out a mug for himself, dropped in a tea bag, filled his mug and got himself some milk from the fridge before turning back to Sherlock. He tried to ignore how hard his heart was beathing. 

Sherlock looked at him wide-eyed. “A big one,” he said eventually. “The biggest one you have.”

John smiled widely and Sherlock finally got up from his chair and kissed him. “Will you stay?”

John nodded, feeling lightheaded all of the sudden. This was really happening. Sherlock had asked him to stay.

“I feel a bit underdressed,” he said instead of trying to explain why he suddenly couldn't keep from smiling widely, finding that his voice was a little unsteady.

Sherlock snorted and kissed him again. 

“Have you thought about Lestrade’s proposition?”

Sherlock nodded and put John’s mug on the table. He gently pushed John into the chair he had been sitting in. Then he sat down on the opposite side of the table. “I really like working with you. And I did enjoy driving your car.”

“But?”

“Ever since Victor, Formula 1 has been something that wasn’t meant for me. I was not thinking about what I was doing when I agreed. I was a bit distracted,” he cleared his throat and looked away. “I did enjoy it. I really did. But there’s no room for me there. I'm bound to disappoint them.”

“Did you agree because you wanted to impress me?” John tried to read Sherlock’s face. He remembered the feeling he had had when Sherlock had asked him to work with him. There was only one answer and he was giving it without thinking it through. It had, after all, turned out to be the right decision.

“I knew you could do it,” Sherlock evaded his question, but it told John everything he needed to know. “I just wasn’t sure whether you’d agree.”

“What if he knew all along?” John lifted his feet from the cold tiles to rest them on Sherlock’s shoes.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock seemed amused by John’s move. He slipped down lower in his chair to make the position more comfortable for John.

“If he had known, he would have told Mycroft.”

“Hmm, maybe he was paying attention to you, then. Did you talk to your brother about me?”

“Briefly. I mostly told him to keep his nose out of my business. He said he owns my business.”

“He’s an arse.”

“He’s my brother.”

“And a psychopath.”

“He has a few control issues.”

“An arse.” John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock bite down several attempts at defending his brother.

“So what’s the alternative?” John asked after a while. “If you don’t want to work for McLaren.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t know. Keep doing what I do?”

“Which means, theoretically, working for McLaren, only without an office, and without mousse au chocolat.”

“And without you.”

“Well,” John bit his lip. “Not necessarily.”

“If I’m not down in Woking and I’m not travelling to the races, I wouldn’t be able to work with you.”

“What if I quit?”

Sherlock stared at him. “No!”

“But …”

“No, out of the question! John, you love it there. You have everything you want, everything you could possibly need. You’ve known me for a week. You will not sacrifice all of the work you put into that place because of me. Lestrade would kill me if you quit now.”

“End of the season?”

Sherlock just shook his head. “You build cars for the drivers on your team and if he’s really lucky, you’ll build one for Jenson that will let him win a race again.”

John thought about Sherlock’s words. He was right. He loved McLaren. He loved Woking. He loved being able to get his hands dirty again. The doors were open and for the first time in his life he could choose what he wanted to do, because he knew he would be welcome anywhere in the garage.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

Sherlock frowned hard at him. “If you come home out of a job you will sleep on the couch.” He tried to sound stern.

John smiled and got up. “I’m going to take a shower. I have to think about this.”

“You are not going to quit your job.”

John left him at the kitchen table and went into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror for a while. A grin took over his solemn expression when he thought back to last night’s events. Goosebumps rose on his skin when thought of Sherlock’s hand on him.

He took his time showering, spending a good ten minutes lazily stroking himself into hardness, wondering what Sherlock would do if he walked in on him now. Then he thought about Sherlock sitting at the edge of the bed, desperately clinging to the sheets while bringing himself off. He grunted and sped up, imagining himself touching Sherlock, making him beg to let him come. The thought alone was enough to push him over the edge.

His ellbow hit the tiles and he grunted in pain. “Fuck,” he gasped, breathless from the sudden shift from pleasure to pain. The pain travelled all the way up and into his shoulder and he knew that seeing Aki and getting it properly treated was definitely a priority.

He washed quickly and grabbed a towel. Only when he dried himself he noticed the bruises on his thigh. Grinning, John wrapped the towel around his hips and walked back into the kitchen.

Sherlock had his phone in his hands but immediately stole a glance at John when he entered the room. John felt his eyes settle on his scar and a moment later he was up and standing right in front of John, reaching out to gently run his fingers along his scarred skin. John watched his face, marvelling at the brightness of his eyes and the concentration with which he looked at him. He took Sherlock’s hand and gently placed it on his hip. Then he drew him close and held on tightly. 

“I’m sorry. I just want to have you with me when I work.”

“I’ll come to Woking with you,” Sherlock said quietly. 

John pulled back to look at his face. Sherlock was entirely serious. 

“Lestrade said that we’re not allowed to distract each other.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smirk. “Well.” That was all he said and John giggled and kissed him. “Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?”

Sherlock nodded and led him back into his bedroom. He opened his wardrobe and John realised that he must have slept incredibly deeply to not wake up when Sherlock had gotten his clothes in the morning. Sherlock handed him pants and a black t-shirt. “It’s almost 2 and we won’t have time to go to your flat before we see Aki,” he argued. 

“Just how long did I sleep?”

“Long” Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t want to wake you up. Again.” He looked away and John grinned.

“Right,” he put down the t-shirt on the bed and dropped his towel, grunting when he bent down to put on the shorts. 

“Do you need help?” Sherlock asked, definitely not looking away anymore. 

“You know, your offer would be incredibly sexy if I wasn’t in so much pain right now,” he straigtened his back and held out the shorts. 

Sherlock took them and went down on one knee in front of him. John tried his best to not look down. He placed one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, glad now that he had come in the shower. If he hadn’t, he’d be hard by now. 

He lifted his left leg and then his right, but Sherlock didn’t pull the pants up yet. He gently touched his thigh where his fingers had left their mark on him and John couldn't help it, he had to look down. Sherlock licked his lips and glanced at his face and John felt himself stir. It was a matter of seconds before Sherlock would notice. He tried to think of something boring, but all he could think of what the fact that Sherlock was kneeling in front of him and how much that reminded him of his first fantasy. 

“Come on,” he said, watching his cock slowly stiffening. 

Sherlock didn’t move. His eyes settled on his cock and he watched with a half smile how John slowly grew fully erect. Sherlock swallowed audibly and looked back up. “May I?” he asked and John knew that either way would be entirely uncomfortable for him. 

“No, not now,” he said, regret heavy in his voice and Sherlock looked a tad disappointed. “You can do whatever you want with me once the pain is gone.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled up his shorts, gently easing him under the fabric. Then he kissed John’s erection and got up, kissing John’s lips. “That was … fascinating.”

John chuckled. “Thanks, I think.” 

Sherlock grinned. “Nobody has ever done that for me.”

“I couldn’t really help it,” John argued.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Can you get me my jeans?” John asked, making Sherlock grin. He realised that it made him incredibly happy to see Sherlock happy. He felt lighter when he saw him smile.

Sherlock was more efficient with the jeans, but he made sure to squeeze John when he pulled them up. John gently pushed Sherlock away so he could close his flies. “Thank you. Socks?”

Sherlock laughed and quickly helped John with those as well. Then he took the shirt from the bed and helped John put it on. His hands smoothed out the fabric across John’s chest and stomach. “I was aware that undressing someone was potentially arousing. I never thought dressing someone could lead to the same result.”

John hugged Sherlock, despite the pain it caused him, and let his hands wander south. He firmly grabbed Sherlock’s arse and pulled him against his own body. Sherlock made an undignified noise and John felt him hard against him. “I’m doomed,” he said, squeezing again, causing Sherlock to moan. “Let’s go. The pain is distracting me from getting you off.”

Sherlock reluctantly moved away and sniffed. “I’ll get us a cab.”

John checked for his wallet, keys and phone and followed Sherlock downstairs. The cab was already waiting. “I hope I didn’t make it worse,” Sherlock said quietly, sitting down on the far end of the seat. John respected his obvious need of air between them and sat down as far away as the seat allowed. “I don’t seem to have broken anything. It felt better for a while last night.”

Sherlock nodded and silently looked out of the window for the rest of the ride. 

The team-physician had agreed to meet John at St. Bart's Hospital and he greeted John cheerfully. Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable but his hand was shaken warmly and Aki told him how impressed he had been by his driving, particularly by the final few laps. “I was getting ready to treat half of the team for cardiac arrest,” he grinned. “Now John, tell me what happened.”

John explained his clumsiness without mentioning Mycroft or the fact that he had ran half a mile right after hurting himself. Aki helped him with his shirt and when the doctor didn’t look at John, he shot Sherlock a dirty look. Sherlock immediately gained some colour around his cheekbones. 

John sat first and lay down later. The physician told John to speak up when something hurt in particular and very soon everything he did made John grunt in pain. “Doesn’t look good,” he concluded and bade John to sit up again. “We’ll get you a scan. Have you been doing your stretching?”

“I was okay,” he defended himself. He rarely stretched these days, nor did he work out. And he knew that he hadn't really been okay.

“You try to relieve the left side of your body.”

John looked at Sherlock in surprise, remembering their first excange a week ago. Sherlock nodded silently. “Your muscles have started to get used to it. Have you been doing something different this week?”

John frowned. “I walked into a door?”

Aki shook his head. “The muscles in your shoulder are partly inflamed, as if you’ve been holding yourself in a way that overworked them.” 

“I worked at the garage?”

“Hmm. That must be it. Something you did over the last few days started to irritate your scar tissue and the muscle around it. Since you didn’t use them properly before, they didn’t agree with it.”

“Can you do something?”

“We’ll x-ray first.”

John sighed and nodded. “How long will that take?”

“I’ll go and check.”

“Thanks,” John huffed and pushed his knuckles against his upper chest, pressing against the pain. 

“You changed your posture,” Sherlock said after the doctor had left the room. 

“What?”

“I didn’t realise, but you did. You started trusting your left side again.” He nodded now, a small smile on his lips. “You’re competetive.”

John cocked his head to the side that didn’t hurt and waggled his eyebrows. “Do you think I did that to prove you wrong?”

“Yes,” Sherlock grinned now. “Even if you didn’t notice.”

John pulled a face and threw his shirt at Sherlock. Just when Sherlock raised his arm to throw it back, the door opened with a quick knock and Lestrade stuck his head in. Sherlock dropped the t-shirt on the chair next to him as if it had burned him. He sat up straight, his expression blank.

Lestrade looked elated. “You two in the same room. That means good news, right?” He looked from Sherlock to John and back, his grin only growing wider.

“Can I have the next three days off?” John asked, trying to drag his boss's attention away from Sherlock, who was clearly feeling very uncomfortable.

“For medical reasons or for late phonecall last night reasons?” he asked, practically bouncing. John felt himself blush despite it all. “Both.”

“Aha!” Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.

“Oh god, please, Greg, stop doing that.”

“I’m just pleased.”

“Did you tell Mycroft to … you know …,” John watched Sherlock sink lower in his chair.

“I told him about Sherlock’s picture on your phone, that calmed him down a bit.”

“What picture?” Sherlock piped up. John closed his eyes for a second. He couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable conversation than the one they were having right now.

“Oh, he doesn’t know. I … am sorry. Sorry. Umm, John, I just … wanted to see how you were, since Aki told me you’d come in for your shoulder. And Sherlock,” he turned around and John rolled his eyes at the ceiling. 

“Just to say it again, without the adrenaline and all. That was pretty fantastic.”

“It was alright.”

“Ah, bollocks. You showed everyone! I’ve never been more proud of anyone. Well, except for John, of course.” He looked back at John, still grinning. “Are you coming back after your time off? If your shoulder is worse, of course you could be out longer, but I’d love for you to be back as soon as possible.”

“Why would he not come back?” Sherlock asked and John raised his hand, motioning him to shut up. Sherlock ignored him. “Of course he’s coming back.”

“Good. Good to know,” Lestrade nodded. “Alright. And what about you? Are you staying?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. John cleared his throat. “He’ll get his own desk. Open access to all floors. He can use the track any time he wants to and he will not be harrassed by anyone on the team.”

Lestrade straightened up and looked at John. “Sounds reasonable. Though, he’ll also get his own office.”

“Why?” John and Sherlock asked simultaneously and Lestrade chuckled. “Okay, we’ll see how things work out if you share an office,” he lifted his hands. “If anyone files a complaint, I’m separating you.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Sherlock asked, his expression sincere. John bit his lip to keep from laughing. 

“I’m just saying,” Lestrade defended himself. 

Aki entered the room again and John let out a sigh of relief. If Lestrade had started dishing on how stupidly he had behaved whenever Sherlock came up in their conversation, he would have a lot of explaining to do. Aki and Lestrade talked briefly about Stoffel’s health and Lestrade took a long, hard look at Sherlock. “I say he drives, if he feels up to it. If not, we have a brilliant third option now.” 

“I didn’t say I’d drive a race again,” Sherlock said, sounding a tiny bit petulant. 

“I didn’t ask you to, yet,” Lestrade countered with a grin.

“Why are you so happy?” Sherlock asked, frowning hard.

“We’re ready for the scan,” Aki informed John before he could tell Sherlock to behave.

He was ushered out of the room and passed on into the hands of nurses who were all smiles and happily explaining the procedure to him. John did not mention that he had gone through the process often enough to do it all by himself and sat down on the assigned chair. A few minutes later he was let out of the room again. He noticed that his shirt was still next to Sherlock in the other room, so he walked back through the hallway, noticing a few appreciative looks from the patients and nurses alike.

He couldn’t remember being looked at like that by anyone. Maybe Sherlock’s way of looking at him had changed his perception – or the way he held himself, he thought with a smile.


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, thanks for the comments, guys. you're all super amazing. I'll write more of this, then :)

Sherlock and Lestrade were talking quietly when John walked back into the room. Aki told him to sit down while he checked the scan on his computer screen and nodded a few times without saying a word. “You pulled a muscle right here just above the scar tissue,” he pointed at his trapezius just above his shoulder blade. He zoomed in on the image and nodded again. “On top of sudden overuse of the muscles that should do the work for that part of your shoulder you must be in more pain than you said.”

John snorted. “What more should I say than ‘ow, this really hurts’.” Sherlock stood a little straighter and John had to smile. He was worried about him and it was worth the pain knowing that he was affected by it. 

“Hmm, I think your tolerance might still be fairly high. To be honest, looking at this, I'd have thought you'd be rolled in here on a stretcher. I’ll give you something for the pain and I’ll inject some relaxant. Try not to move your shoulder too much. Give it two or three days of rest to let the inflammation calm down and then we can start with physio exercises.”

“Can I walk and … do things?” John asked, wondering if he’d spend the next three days in bed. He tried not to grin at that thought. 

“Anything that doesn’t hurt you. Try to stand up as much as possible. Use your core-strength. Breathe evenly. Don’t run. Or lift anything heavy. And don’t collide with any more doors.”

John nodded, suppressing a smile. Except for the breathing part he was sure he could stick to his doctor’s orders. 

“The shots will hurt,” Aki warned. 

“I know. I remember.” He recalled quite clearly how blindingly painful the shots had been which had been administered to his injured shoulder on a regular basis. Back then, the pain had helped to ground him. The mental pain was less prominent when he couldn’t think straight for the searing pain in his shoulder.

Sherlock looked at him, his expression open and vulnerable. “Can I help?” Lestrade stared at Sherlock, slowly shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

John held out his left hand and Sherlock walked over to him and took it in his right. “Tell me about the track in two weeks. What will be the greatest challenge.”

Sherlock nodded and quietly started to take John through the turns of the track in Hockenheim. He had reached the hairpin turn when John pressed his eyes shut, his mouth open in a silent scream, his hand holding Sherlock’s in an iron grip. The pain was overwhelming and John needed a few moments before he could breathe again after the needle was long gone. “Fucking hell!”

“Sorry, John. Two more.”

John nodded and released Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stretched his fingers and something in his hand cracked. John giggled. “Sorry.”

“I will kill Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sounding ready to do good on his threat at the earliest chance. Lestrade looked slightly shocked. “What did he do?”

“It’s his fault,” Sherlock said, not turning around. Instead he took John’s hand again.

“It’s not, really,” John tried to argue.

“Slowly and painfully,” Sherlock added and John couldn’t help but grin.

“Could you maybe not plan the murder of your brother right now?” Lestrade piped up again.

“Very, very slowly and very, very painfully,” Sherlock nodded and stepped closer when the needle broke John’s skin. John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, grunting in pain. Sherlock’s left hand came up to gently rest against the back of John’s head. John remained motionless even after the needle was gone.

“One more and you get a biscuit,” Aki said and John raised his right hand to flip him off over his shoulder. His doctor only chuckled. “Okay, this is the last one.”

John’s right hand held tightly on to the edge of the examination table. He was ready to scream. Sherlock’s hand tightened his grip in his hair and for a moment the pain disappeared in favour of a flash of arousal which immediately vanished when Aki withdrew the needle.

“Done,” he announced. “Now I’ll give you 800mg Ibuprophen. You know the drill. Food first, half a pint of water and no stress. One every six hours at the most.”

John exhaled noisily and sat up straight again. His shoulder hurt in a different way now. It felt like it was on fire. “I’m dying, aren’t I?” he asked and Sherlock stepped between his legs and gently pulled him into a hug. John enjoyed pressing his face against his chest immensely and he allowed himself to breathe normally, feeling the pain slowly recede.

He heard a click and sighed. “Stop taking pictures, Lestrade,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment, but John gently ran his right hand up and down his back, so he stayed where he was.

“I need food,” John announced after he felt that he would be able to walk without starting to cry from the pain. “Let’s get some food.”

“Need a driver?” Lestrade offered. He looked decidedly too happy for someone who had just seen one employee in great pain while the other threatened to kill his business partner.

John looked at Sherlock whose expression told him that he’d rather carry John on his back than have Lestrade drive them around. “No, thanks,” John said.

“Alright. I’ll be down in at the Yard, debriefing everyone. You go and get some rest. Let me know when you come back to work. I’ll have Anderson and Josh fill in for you.”

“Thanks for coming,” John said. “That was very kind of you. I know I wasn’t exactly professional last night.”

“That was after work, wasn’t it? You also built a winning car, so I don’t think you should be punished too harshly. And you have other things to take care of at the moment. Thanks, Aki,” he said before he turned to the door. “And Sherlock, I think we can come to an agreement.”

Sherlock nodded and turned to get John’s shirt. “I know where we can go for lunch,” he said and helped John to put it on.

John pocketed the pills Aki gave him and promised to call him as soon as he noticed any changes.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and soon John found himself sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant in Soho. The owner greeted Sherlock enthusiastically and Sherlock allowed himself a smile. “This is Angelo, he owns this place. Best Italian food in town and occasional exotic spare parts of cars in the back. Angelo, this is John.”

John shook Angelo’s hand, smiling. Getting to know tiny parts of Sherlock’s life made him incredibly happy. He remembered feeling that Sherlock purposefully kept any real information about his life from him. Having gotten to know Mycroft, he could understand why that was, and being shown this restaurant now proved that Sherlock was ready to let him in. He hooked his ankle under Sherlock’s and pulled, getting his attention. “This is nice,” he smiled.

Sherlock smiled back and then lowered his eyes. “What do you want to eat?”

“Anything on the menu for free for you and your … John.”

Sherlock glanced at Angelo before meeting John’s eyes briefly. Then he looked away again. He seemed happy but embarassed. “You okay?” John asked when Angelo had disappeared to fetch them the menu.

“I’ve never brought a date,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “He’s asked me more times than I can remember. I’m certain he is currently cashing in on a bet he’s taken after watching the race yesterday. I know he’s big on betting and he’ll undoubtledly have gotten his staff involved.” 

It took the man a whole five minutes to return with two menus and a bottle of wine. John was certain he had never seen a bottle of wine that appeared to have real gold on the label. “John can’t drink,” Sherlock apologised. “Medical reason. Strong painkillers.”

“The old injury acting up?” Angelo looked heartstricken. John nodded weakly. “Ahh, I remember seeing it on the telly. That was a terrible accident. But, let’s not dwell on the sad moments in life. I’m very happy to host you. Take the bottle home and share it once you feel better.”

“Thank you,” John looked at the man and wondered whether he’d come here more often in the future. It seemed as if the man knew a whole lot about racing. Then he had a look at the food on offer and he decided on pasta with dried tomatoes, parmesan and fresh basil. “No garlic,” he added when he ordered and Sherlock sat a little straighter, seemigly engrossed in the pattern of the table cloth.

Sherlock ordered pizza, tap water and an obscure drink whose name John could neither pronounce nor guess what it could refer to. Once Angelo was gone, Sherlock leaned closer. “I ordered it to keep him busy. He’s the only one in London who makes it and it’ll keep him in the kitchen. Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The photo.”

“What photo?” John felt himself blush.

“The photo Lestrade mentioned. The one you obviously don't want me to know about.” Sherlock’s eyes burned.

“Oh, that photo.” Johnsaid lamely and fumbled with his phone a bit before he put it down in front of Sherlock. “Call me,” he said, trying not to feel too embarassed by it.

Sherlock did and picked up John’s phone when his call came through. He looked at it long enough to activate John’s voice mail and even then he kept looking. Eventually he placed both phones back on the table. “That was the second day.”

“I was happy to find you there and you just looked so at peace. I just had to take a picture.”

“I’m starting to understand why everyone thought you were being obvious, if you let them know about this.”

John blushed. “I felt like an idiot when Lestrade saw it. But it helped me concentrate. It helped to know that you had slept in my office that morning. It got me through the week when you weren’t there.”

Sherlock pushed both phones across the table towards John. “Call me,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

John frowned and picked up his phone. He dialled Sherlock’s number and looked at Sherlock’s phone. Once the call came through he saw a photo fill the screen. It showed him on Sherlock’s couch, deeply asleep with a smile on his face. It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. “Are you telling me that I’m not the only one with obsessive tendencies?”

Sherlock huffed. “I feel much better now.”

John grinned. “Me, too. What else did Lestrade say?”

Sherlock leaned back and looked at John for a moment. “He said he’d try to reopen the investigation on the accident.”

“Which accident. Your accident? You’re calling it an accident,” he noticed even while he was speaking. “Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to know about it.”

“Have you considered talking to Victor again?”

Sherlock’s face hardened. “To what end?”

John exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Sherlock leaned across the table and took John’s hand in his for a moment and squeezed.

Before he could say anything else, the food arrived and Angelo was all smiles when he served Sherlock a thick green drink that looked like something John had seen Jarno drink back in the day when he believed that green always equalled health. John smiled when he remembered the driver trying to convince everyone to only eat the green apples when they were presented with a huge basket at a race weekend in Hungaria.

“Enjoy,” Angelo grinned and patted Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock held up the glass as if to cheer him and then placed it back on the table. “Now I have to get rid of this.”

“You should drink it, I’m sure it’s good for you.”

Sherlock pushed the glass over to John. “If you drink this, I'll …”

“Yes?”

“I'll work with you. In engineering. Properly. With a contract. And I’ll bring you tea whenever you need one.”

John frowned. He suddenly didn’t quite trust that drink anymore. He sniffed at it and scrunched up his nose. “What is in this?”

Sherlock shrugged and leaned back again. “Do you want to make a counter proposition?”

John smirked, shook his head and put the glass to his lips. He inhaled deeply and then held his breath. He downed the drink without stopping, noticing half way through that it was actually quite tasty and in all likelyhood very healthy indeed.

“You really want me to work with you, don’t you?” Sherlock’s cheeks were a flushed but he smiled, too. “Sorry, that was a bit out of line,” he said, biting his lip in a way that made John feel very warm all of the sudden. 

He laughed and placed the glass in the centre of the table. “I mostly want you to bring me tea. And this was actually really nice.”

“Secret recipe. Angelo claims it has healing powers.” Sherlock smirked and started on his food, while John marvelled at the entirely mistaken belief of Sherlock's that he thought he wasn't good with people. Half an hour later, John took his painkillers and leaned back carefully, realising that his shoulder felt much better than it had all day. The extreme pain of the shots had been worth it.

Sherlock was mostly quiet, occasionally getting lost in deep thought. John found it fascinating to see his eyes change, as if he was looking at something which John couldn’t see.

“What are you thinking about?” John asked once Sherlock blinked a few times and focussed on him again.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

John shrugged. “Probably catch up on work?”

Sherlock looked a tiny bit disappointed, so John lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “After waking you up with a nice, slow …”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he made a sudden movement which upset his water glass. John reached out to steady it before it tipped over. Sherlock looked flustered.

“Blowjob,” John finished, grinning, watching Sherlock inhale deeply. The buttons on his shirt strained against his chest. John realised that despite Sherlock’s occasional cockiness, he’d be able to make him blush simply by talking about sex. He licked his lips and watched Sherlock’s eyes settle on his mouth.

“Should we go?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. He waved at Angelo, who sternly refused Sherlock’s offer to pay for their food and the wine after all. “That bottle has been waiting for you for years,” he argued. “It’s always been yours and now you have earned it, you and John Watson.”

Sherlock sighed. “Thank you, Angelo.”

The man smiled a happy smile and ushered them outside. “You’re always welcome here. Both of you.”

John thanked him while Sherlock flagged down a cab. Sitting down, John realised how good it felt to be almost free from pain. He exhaled slowly and slouched in his seat, doing the opposite of what Aki had advised. This time, Sherlock didn’t sit far away from him, but close enough to press his leg against John’s. Sherlock was turned on and John enjoyed knowing it without acting upon it.

Once they reached his flat, John made sure to not stand too close to Sherlock. He went into his bathroom to quickly pack up his toiletries, feeling as if he was going away on a race weekend. Then he went into his bedroom, randomly pulling out clothes from his wardrobe, wondering how long he could stay at Sherlock’s place. He remembered his words at the kitchen table that morning. He had simply asked him to stay, without any limitations. John’s heart took up speed.

Suddenly he felt himself pulled back against Sherlock’s chest. He turned around to properly embrace him and smiled up at Sherlock. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him. His lips were soft and welcoming and the kiss was slow and gentle. Eventually Sherlock pulled back again. “You can stay for as long as you want to,” he said quietly.


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

John stood on his toes to kiss him again, and he was neither gentle nor soft about it. It took him a handful of seconds to make Sherlock moan and despite his doctor’s orders he tugged at Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it out of his trousers. Breathlessly, he waited for Sherlock to make the first real move, growing almost desperate thinking that Sherlock might just keep kissing him without moving his hands from his back.

Finally, Sherlock pulled one hand around to his hip, making John squirm as he found a spot that tickled him while his other hand settled on John’s buttock and squeezed. John grunted and pressed closer against Sherlock, allowing his own hands to slip down and squeeze, too. 

Sherlock threw his head back and stopped breathing for a moment while John’s breathing grew heavier by the second. Eventually he could not hold himself back and dropped to his knees, fumbling with Sherlock’s flies. His left hand cupped his erection, squeezing and stroking him through the fabric of his trousers while Sherlock stared down on him with wide eyes. 

Once he had succeeded in opening Sherlock’s trousers, he janked them and his underwear down to his knees, immediately sucking him into his mouth while Sherlock clearly didn’t know what to do with his hands. John could feel that he was hesitant, probably knowing that he would hurt John if he held on to his shoulders, but obviously needing to hold on to something before his legs would give out. John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock’s reactions. He gasped loudly and trembled when John sped up, so he slowed down again, remembering that he wanted to show Sherlock that coming as quickly as possible was not exactly the most satisfying way to have sex. 

“John!” Sherlock’s fingers settled on the back of John’s head and he tried to make him move faster, causing him to stop entirely instead. John let him slip out and looked up at Sherlock. “Yes?”

“I didn’t mean,” Sherlock bit his lip. “Don’t stop. Please?”

“Bed,” John said, scrambling upright. “Come on!”

Sherlock shuffled over to John’s bed as best as he could with his trousers hanging below his knees. Then he sat down and kicked off his shoes. John knelt and pulled away his trousers. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled him closer to the edge. Sherlock had clearly not expected John to be able to simply pull his weight across the bed and for a moment he looked simply stunned. 

The shock only lasted until John had pushed his legs apart and sucked him back into his mouth. Sherlock dropped back onto the bed, his shirt riding up, the stretch of his toned stomach making John’s fingers itch to touch him. 

He kept going for a while, trying to figure out what made Sherlock jump, what made him groan, what distracted him and what would bring him close. Eventually he let him slip out again and pressed an open mouthed kiss to his cock's head. 

“Why did you stop?” Sherlock’s voice was rough. 

“I want to touch you,” John said, getting up. “My shoulder doesn’t hurt at the moment and I really want to touch you.”

Sherlock’s pupils were huge when he climbed on the bed so he could kiss him. John started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt and whenever he revealed a new patch of skin he kissed it. Finally he abandoned the shirt in favour of taking off his own. Sherlock sat up to push his shirt away and dropped it on the bed next to him.

“This isn’t too much, too fast, is it?” John asked despite Sherlock’s promise to tell him if he went to far.

Sherlock just shook his head.

“Okay,” John exhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. He knew he would suffer for what he was currently doing, but the painkillers kept their promise for now and Sherlock was sitting on his bed naked and aroused. “You’re beautiful,” he wispered before he could stop himself.

Sherlock just looked at him and shook his head. “How did you happen to me?”

John chuckled. “I think you happened to me.”

“I respectfully disagree,” Sherlock said, his lips curling into a smile.

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Dessert.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock grinned and John leaned in to kiss him gently. Sherlock grabbed him and pushed him down, looking at his face to see if he had hurt him. John fought back but he knew that he shouldn’t overdo it, so he let Sherlock win.

Sherlock opened John’s jeans and pulled them down, moving down his body with them to push them away. He stopped when his face was aligned with John's hip and John swallowed hard. He felt goosebumps rise on his thighs and he shivered, half terrified and half fascinated by the reaction Sherlock triggered in him.

“May I?” Sherlock looked up at him and John could feel his stomach clench.

“Yes, please!”

Sherlock smiled and kissed his hip, turning his head to look at John’s cock as if it was a particularly interesting piece of machinery. John knew he shouldn’t find this thought arousing, but it appeared that anything Sherlock could have done in that moment would have had this effect on him.

Then he took him in his hand and slowly guided him into his mouth. “Fuck,” he whispered, hoping that he’d hold out for a bit. He wanted Sherlock to feel like he’d have to work for his reward, even if he couldn’t say why. His competetiveness was returning, he gathered, slipping a hand into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock had quite obviously never done this before and for a long time John let him experiment, glad that Sherlock's teeth and gag reflex forced him to stop every now and then. He knew that if Sherlock would just settle for stroking him while holding his head between his lips he would be done for. This way he could enjoy the view while not coming too close to orgasm too soon.

When he finally did get close, he pulled at Sherlock’s hair and forced him to move up to kiss him. “I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock apologised and John kissed him again, squeezing his arse and pulling him down on top of himself. He grunted at the contact and Sherlock buried his face in his neck when John pulled again.

“I made you stop before it was too late,” John admitted against his shoulder.

“Why?”

“Because this,” he dragged his fingernails up Sherlock’s back only to move down and repeat the action, “is unbelievably good.”

Sherlock shuddered and pushed himself up on his hands while his hips were still firmly pressing down against John’s. “Teach me,” he said, his voice a low growl.

“Not today,” John answered, pushing up his hips.

“Why not?” Sherlock’s arms shook. He was close. John wondered whether he should make him wait a little more.

“Because you’ve been fantasising about this since you woke up this morning.”

“That is not a good reason,” Sherlock argued, rutting against him. He did not contradict John’s guess.

“You’ve been wanting this all day.”

“You’re not helping!”

“Tell me about a fantasy of yours,” John’s hands settled on Sherlock’s arse again.

Sherlock grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. “Why?”

John chuckled and pushed hard anough to flip them over. “Do you want to come at some point today?”

“And here I thought you were a nice person,” Sherlock complained, pushing up against him.

“Tell me about the shower.”

“I already told you,” he started to sound petulant again and John rolled his hips, shutting him up effectively. After a few moments of heavy breathing, Sherlock sighed and turned his face away. “Fine.”

“Go on!” John couldn’t believe that Sherlock allowed him that much power over him. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock giving up control consciously when he wasn’t forced to.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then started to breathe faster, his hands clinging to John’s back, his hips pushing up against him erratically. John watched his face when he came, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, his teeth bared. He looked almost as if he were in pain. For a long while John watched him as he calmed down again.

“You know, you didn’t say any of that out loud,” John whispered against his lips once Sherlock opened his eyes again.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I barely touched you.”

“Where?” John bit his lip, enjoying Sherlock’s flustered look.

“Your back. I did not even …”

“Yeah?” 

“Can I try again?”

John rolled off him and spread his arms. “Do your worst.”

Sherlock wiped his stomach with his shirt and John stared. He did not want to know how much that shirt had cost nor how Sherlock would explain to the dry cleaner about the stains on the fabric. 

“Could you sit up, please?”

“You’re allowed to use a more commanding tone,” John grinned while scooting back to sit up against the headboard.

Instead of reacting to John’s teasing, he simply pushed John’s legs apart and settled between them. It couldn’t be a comfortable position for Sherlock, but John had a lovely view on his back and arse, so he kept quiet about it.

“Talk to me,” Sherlock said, his tone definitely demanding now. John imagined him using that voice during a race and he felt himself twitch. Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat.

“Use your hand. Just the base. Three fingers. Oh god, yes.” John squirmed and tugged at Sherlock’s hair again.

“Be careful not to use your teeth. Just,” he bit his lip when Sherlock’s lips closed around his head. “Just, use your lips and your tongue. Just do what you think you would like,” he arched up into Sherlock’s mouth when his tongue circled his head. Sherlock did not take long to bring him close to the edge and John tensed up. He felt his shoulder twitch and cursed loudly out of annoyance and arousal.

Sherlock let go of him and John fisted his hair, trying to push him back down weakly. Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s chest. “Relax,” he said, as if that was a real option right then. John grunted and pushed harder. But then he tried to breathe evenly, trying to relax his shoulders just when Sherlock started stroking him. 

John doubled over and then slammed back against the headboard when Sherlock finally took him over the egde. He let go of Sherlock’s hair and balled his hands into fists, pushing them hard against the matress. 

Sherlock stared at him in awe, and John knew that he’d pay for his carelessness. He squirmed when Sherlock gave his head an experimental lick and the squirm encouraged him to suck on him again. John arched up and Sherlock pulled at his hips until he lay down while Sherlock knelt arse up between his legs, continuing to lick and suck him.

“Stop, please!” John begged, weakly trying to push Sherlock away from him.

Sherlock sucked him into his mouth as far as he would go one last time before letting him slip out with a small ‘plop.’

“That’s what you meant when you said you would make me feel you for days, wasn’t it?” Sherlock grinned, pleased with his discovery.

John simply lay there for a while and watched Sherlock work through the experience they had just shared. “Lestrade is going to kill me,” he finally said, stretching his shoulders a bit. It didn’t hurt much, but he was still on painkillers and he would feel the result later on.

Sherlock moved to lie next to him. John’s bed was tiny in comparison to Sherlock’s and John made room so that Sherlock could lie comfortably. “You don’t have to tell him. You might have just sat down too heavily.”

John grinned and gently touched his face. “Very unfortunate timing,” he murmured and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. He tasted himself on his lips and he marvelled at Sherlock’s fearlessness. He’d just gone for it and once he knew what John wanted, he had blown him away. He grinned at the pun and kissed him again.

They watched each other for a while and John remembered watching him while he worked. His eyes were always focussed then. And then there were those moments when he was far, far away in his own world. And now he saw him in an in between state. Calm, relaxed, watching, but not searching.

“What happens next weekend?” he remembered Sherlock’s question from the restaurant.

Sherlock smirked and turned on his back. “You mean after the unforgettable blowjob?” His ears were pink and John pushed himself up to plant a kiss on his lips. “Yeah, after that.”

“I was thinking that we, umm, could have a look at something.”

“Very specific,” John grinned and ran his hand along Sherlock’s side. Sherlock gasped and squirmed.

“Are you ticklish?”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly and John grinned, poking him to make him squirm again. “You’re evil,” he said, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. He grunted when John ran his fingertips across his sticky lower stomach. John propped himself up on his right elbow and let his fingers dance across the soft, sensitive skin on Sherlock’s upper thighs, stomach and waist. And yet, Sherlock lay entirely still, his hands twitching, but he did not reach out to stop him.

He dipped his index finger into Sherlock’s belly button and finally Sherlock giggled. “Aha,” John grinned triumphantly and started to tickle him in earnest. Sherlock squirmed again and halfheartedly tried to escape his fingers. “What did I do to deserve this?” he finally complained with a laugh.

John pulled up his hand to rest against Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock inhaled deeply, catching his breath. Then John squeezed a nipple and Sherlock arched up, grunting. John watched Sherlock, fascinated by his physical reactions to being touched. He squeezed again and Sherlock gave in and grabbed his hand, trapping it against his chest. His right hand moved down to take hold of his returned erection.

“Oh no,” John chuckled and pulled his hand away from underneath Sherlock’s, swatting at his right hand. “Mine!”

Sherlock frowned and dropped his hand. John grinned. “Your turn. Sit up!” Sherlock sat against the headboard, pushing a pillow behind his back to make himself more comfortable and John chuckled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sherlock grinned a feral grin at him and spread his legs. 

“Alright, bossy,” John grinned and settled down between his legs, kneeling to keep his shoulder from overstretching. Then he took his time to really look at him for a moment. He smiled when he saw him twitch under his gaze and he ran his index finger along his length while he pressed an open mouthed kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock swallowed audibly and John sucked hard, drawing blood to the surface of his skin, bruising him. He saw Sherlock’s fingers clinging to the sheets, his breath forcibly quiet. He was waiting for something, John noticed. He turned his head so Sherlock could see himself slip into his mouth and he pulled him in as far as he would go. Then he swallowed around him and slowly let him slip out again. Sherlock had stopped breathing entirely. 

“Sherlock,” John let go of him and looked up, worrying a bit about his habit to stop breathing when things got too intense for him. “Breathe, please?”

Sherlock’s held breath rushed out, followed by a noise which made John’s skin break out in gooseflesh. He tried to be slow and gentle, teasing Sherlock with repeated breaks, kissing along his length and carefully stroking his perinnium. He could tell that Sherlock grew frustrated and he wanted to see how long he could go on before he would try to take control.

He didn’t. The grunts and moans gave away his arousal and occasionally he swore under his breath, but his hands remained at his sides and his hips only bucked up when he really couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

John felt his neck ache from the angle and he knew he needed to make him come, even though he would have loved to go on and see how long he could edge Sherlock. So he let him go and moved to the edge of the bed, fumbling in his nightstand until he found what he was looking for. He hadn’t touched his bottle of lube in a year and he looked forward to reintroducing it to his life. With a grin he squeezed a generous amount on the palm of his hand, waiting a moment for it to warm up.

Sherlock reached out and dipped his finger in before he rubbed it between his finger tips, smelling it. Then he drew his finger along the length of his erection and grunted. John watched him, wondering if he’d take over from here, too frustrated to hope for John to finish him off.

Sherlock’s index finger picked up some more lube and he pulled one knee up to his shoulder while running his finger along his perinnium and further down. John groaned when he probed and pushed a single finger in. He twisted his hand a bit, pulled out and pushed in deeper. John could see a drop of precome running down the length of his cock and the sudden notion of making love to Sherlock made him gasp. The gasp broke Sherlock’s concentration and he inhaled deeply. “This is amazing. I never considered lubricant …”

John stared at him with a confused expression and then started laughing. Sherlock had written an entire scientific essay on the uses of lubricant and had never even encountered the notion that it would be incredibly useful during sex.

“What?” Sherlock asked, half amused, half annoyed by John’s laughter.

“I read your blog post,” he giggled and grabbed Sherlock’s erection, watching his face as he smoothly pushed up and down. “About lubricant,” he added, still laughing.

“It’s very useful,” Sherlock gasped and slid down from his sitting position.

“Have you never watched porn?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head. “I read … things. Not about lubricant, obviously. I never wanted to see strangers have sex with each other.”

John sped up, pressing kisses and laughter against Sherlock’s inner thigh. Sherlock twisted his finger and grunted.

“Oh John, oh. Oh my god,” Sherlock arched up, his whole body lifting off the bed while his shoulders still pressed against the headboard. John grabbed his hip and pressed him down again while his other hand kept going. Sherlock came incredibly hard, considering that it was his second orgasm in a relatively short time. Nevertheless, he kept arching up, his hips shaking while his finger still pushed in and out.

John huffed out a laugh when he remembered how affected he had been by the many photos which suddenly appeared of Sherlock all over the internet. “And I just kissed you for the first time last night,” he murmured against Sherlock’s knee.

“Hmm?” Sherlock shuddered when he pulled out his finger, ungraciously wiping his hand on the sheets.

“It’s a bit surreal, all of this,” John admitted and wiped his hand on Sherlock’s stomach instead, spreading a mess of cum and lube across his skin.

Sherlock tensed in another aftershock. He made an annoyed noise and John licked his soft cock, making him whine. With a grin, he crawled back up to lie next to Sherlock. “We both need to shower immediately.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Sherlock argued and wrapped one long limb around John’s legs, holding him in place.

“Ha, liar!”

“I’ve had long conversations with experts about lubricant,” Sherlock admitted, laughing quietly. “Nobody even tried to make a joke. How terrible. I will never be able to talk about lubricant again.”

“Not with professionals,” John agreed and kissed him. “Come on, shower.”

“Are we staying here tonight?”

“If you want to?”

Sherlock nodded. “Your bed is nice.”

“It’s very small.”

“Big enough.”

John poked his chest and then leaned over to flick his tongue across a nipple. A tiny shock ran though Sherlock’s body. John grinned and sucked it into his mouth. Sherlock tried to push him away. “You’re killing me, John!”

John pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “You know what I like most about this? That you talk to me.”

Sherlock watched him, his breath still a bit quick from the sudden oral onslaught on his chest.

“I worried a lot about the things you didn’t say.”

“I couldn’t possibly say to you what I really thought,” Sherlock admitted.

“I got so close to saying ‘I love you’ a few times,” John murmured, resting his head against Sherlock’s sternum, closing his eyes. 

“I got close to kissing you a few times. Many times, in fact,” Sherlock admitted. 

John pressed a kiss to his chest and then looked up to kiss his lips. Sherlock pushed his hand into his hair and deepened the kiss. When Sherlock’s other hand slid down his back and settled on his arse and John felt himself stir, he pulled away and climbed off the bed. “Shower, now.”


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Verity Burns, because shower.

Showering together proved more of a challenge than John could have imagined. Sherlock seemed incredibly distracted by the whole affair, while having Sherlock naked and wet in such close proximity made John forget about the limited hot water. They ended up washing away the final traces of semen and soap with cold water.

Sherlock helped John to dry off, making sure that his shoulder wouldn’t suffer any more than it already had. John got dressed in track suit bottoms and a t-shirt while Sherlock stole a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt from John’s bag. Seeing Sherlock wear his clothes made John feel a strange kind of longing that he could not remember to have ever felt. He went to put the kettle on, considering ordering dinner, but feeling still full from their late lunch. Sherlock sat down on the small couch that stood in the corner of the tiny living room and pulled his legs close to his body while John sorted out the tea. “Mycroft hasn’t been in touch. I can’t believe he didn’t call me yet to warn me or tell me off.”

“Maybe Lestrade’s intervention helped?”

“He probably sent him that photo he took of us,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and John chuckled. He fetched his phone and sat down next to Sherlock. “Smile,” he grinned and took a picture of both of them. When he checked it, he found that Sherlock had not looked at the phone at all, but at him, and he found it hard to breathe for a moment.

To hide his blush, he put the phone away and leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock pulled him into his lap and continued to kiss him until they were both sore from each other’s stubble. John pushed his hands into Sherlock’s hair and just looked at him for a moment. “What happens next weekend?” he asked, running his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw-line.

“I usually go up to Scotland for a few days around that weekend.”

“Scotland?”

“Family tradition. Or it used to be until Mycroft became unbearable and mother decided that our other family members should not be dragged into the drama.”

“So you have family in Scotland?”

“It’s really rather boring. And we're not actually Scottish. French, originally, if you need to know. It’s an old late eighteenth century estate north of Perth. My uncle used to paint up there when he was young. When he died he left it to mother. I go up for a check up each summer, Mycroft spends Christmas up there.”

“Are you asking me out on a romantic trip to the Highlands?”

“To check whether nobody broke into the house in the past six months, yes,” Sherlock smirked.

John felt delighted by the prospect, but he knew that they couldn’t really stay away for long, not in the middle of the season and not when both of them were needed at work. “We have to be back on Monday.”

“I know.”

“It takes a whole day to drive up there.”

“We could leave on Thursday. Take your car?”

“Oh, that’s what it’s all about,” John chuckled and Sherlock frowned, irritated by John’s reaction before he realised what he was implying and blushed deeply.

“No. I mean,” he looked decidedly uncomfortable and John giggled and kissed him again. “I just thought it might be a good idea for you to get behind the wheel for a longer period of time. See how that goes?”

John sighed and leaned back, chewing on his lip. “I don’t know.”

“I could drive?”

“An estate. You said it’s an estate?”

“Sounds worse than it is.”

“Large house and all?”

“A few acres of woodland. Horace used to have horses, too. Now the whole estate is deserted.”

“What do you usually do when you’re up there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I think.”

John smiled, picturing Sherlock taking long solitary walks, deep in thought about a motor or gear box of some sort. “Okay. I’ll see what Lestrade says. I don’t know about the driving, though. How do you go up there? I don’t even know whether you own a car.”

“I drive a bike when I need to.”

“A bike.”

Sherlock nodded. 

John felt his cheeks grow hot. 

Sherlock grinned. “You like the idea.”

“You on a bike? Yeah,” he huffed out a laugh.

“That’d be an alternative, though I don’t think I could concentrate if you sat behind me for several hours.”

“We wouldn’t get far.”

Sherlock nodded wistfully. “You could get your own bike?”

John made a face and got up, feeling the urge to move. The thought of Sherlock on a bike was distractingly hot; the thought of himself on a bike terrified him. He scratched the back of his head and stared out of the window for a while, trying to drag his thoughts away from the mental image of him slipping off the bike and under a lorry. 

“John?” He felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand hover over his shoulder. He waited until it settled there, reminding him of the moment in the pits when his stomach had been in knots because all he had wanted was to be closer to him.

“I know I should say that I will try, but I can’t.”

“You don’t have to. And you don’t have to come to Scotland, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do. It sounds lovely. You know, my mother’s parents were Scottish and I haven’t been in a long time. I don’t know what it is. I know I can drive. I’m good at it.” He rubbed his eyes and turned around to look at Sherlock. “I sat in your car after the qualifying session. I tried to see if there had been a mechanical problem and it felt good. I mean, I was too short to actually drive, but I could have. Right then, I could have.” He felt frustrated. Frustrated with himself and frustrated that Sherlock was obviously trying to help while John knew he’d disappoint him. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping around Sherlock. He filled he kettle and switched it on only to remember that there was long cold tea on the small coffee table in front of the couch. He picked up the mugs and poured the cold tea into the sink to fill them with freshly brewed tea. “It must be the pain. For a long time I thought I would always be in pain and that it would never stop hurting. And then it did. But now it’s back.”

Sherlock nodded. “I understand,” he said quietly. John noticed that he looked pale and it took him a few seconds to catch on. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But I insisted on talking about him …”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“About what?” John felt his throat tightening.

“About talking to him. It might help.”

“Or maybe it will make everything worse?”

“I don’t think it can get worse than it was,” Sherlock turned his face away and John handed him a mug.

“Dented, remember?” John said and took a sip. His lips burned from the heat, but mostly from the kissing.

Sherlock huffed and raised his mug. “I'll drink to that.”

John sat down on the couch again and patted the cushion next to him. Sherlock folded himself into the small space and rubbed his face against John’s right shoulder. John tried very hard not to make an undignified noise that would betray what that made him feel like.

“I could start with the simulator,” he suggested. “Ease into things.”

“I could write a letter?” Sherlock said quietly. “Ha, look at us. We’re our own little therapy group.”

“Whose members sleep with one another.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock grinned. He sounded a little breathless. 

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, wondering how long the painkillers would hold up. He already felt the shadow of the burning sensation Aki had left him with return. “Do you want to lie down?”

Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t sleep much last night. Or the night before that. Or …”

“How you won that race will forever be a mystery to me.”

“Imagine how good I could be if I was properly rested,” Sherlock grinned and John giggled, unsure whether he really wanted to find out. 

John watched Sherlock grow tired as soon as his head hit the pillow. Neither of them talked, and soon his eyes began to grow heavy. He hoped that Sherlock would still be in bed when he woke up in the morning. He wanted to see him sleepy and soft and unguarded. Sherlock moved closer and John turned around, finding himself spooned by Sherlock once again. Apparently the size of the bed did not matter as long as Sherlock could wrap himself around John. He grinned and stroked his wrist with his thumb. 

It was dark when he woke up, finding it hard to breathe. For a few seconds he tried to figure out where he was and why he was sweating and having trouble to inhale properly. Sherlock held him too tightly, he realised after a few panicked seconds. Sherlock’s hand was fisted in his shirt while his arm was pressing against him with such force that John feared he was cramping. 

John tried to turn around, but he was unable to gain any leverage. He tried to loosen Sherlock’s hand but only succeeded in making him hold on even tighter. “Sherlock,” he gasped, slowly understanding that Sherlock couldn’t be conscious of his action. “Sherlock, wake up!”

For a second, the arm on his chest relaxed and John pushed it away while moving to lie on his back. “Sherlock. Wake up!”

Sherlock’s face was a mask of pain. Sweat had dampened his hair and his jaw worked furiously.

“Wake up,” John said, louder this time, grunting when he felt that the painkillers had definitely stopped working. “Sherlock!” He pushed at him, feeling how tense his whole body was as he pressed his shoulders against the mattress. “You’re dreaming, Sherlock. You’re just dreaming.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered open, tears following unbidden. He stared at John while they ran freely down his face and into his hair. “It’s alright,” John said quietly. “I got you. It’s alright. You were dreaming.”

Sherlock blinked and then lifted his hand to his forehead, closing it to a fist and opening it again. He exhaled shakily and wiped at his face.

“Are you okay?” John asked gently, moving off of him to sit up.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling for a long moment before he shook his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked, his thumb tracing the wake of his tears.

“I’m fine,” John assured him, tentatively reaching out to touch his hand. “I just need to take another painkiller. Do you want some water?”

Sherlock nodded and John squeezed his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

He filled a glass of water and drank it after taking the pill. Then he filled the glass again and brought it back into the bedroom. Sherlock sat in the middle of the bed, his legs drawn close to his body, his arms wrapped around his legs and his face buried between his knees. John put the water down on the nightstand, guessing that Sherlock had agreed to the water to be alone for a moment.

John climbed into the bed and settled down behind him, wrapping his arms and legs around him and kissing the exposed skin between his hair and his t-shirt. He didn’t speak and neither did Sherlock, but he could feel him relax slowly. John ran a hand through his hair, feeling how damp it was, wondering what had scared Sherlock so much. Eventually Sherlock lifted his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracked and tired.

“Talk to me?” John asked, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s shin.

“It’s just memories.”

“It’s never just memories,” John whispered. “It’s always worse.”

Sherlock let go of his legs and unfolded his body. John wrapped his arms around his chest and pressed his face against his shoulder.

“I could see his face. It does not make sense, but I could see his face.”

John said nothing, waiting for Sherlock to speak when he was ready. 

“I can’t have seen his face. I hit the back of his car and he wore a helmet.” He sounded frustrated. “I don’t remember. Why do I not remember?”

“It was a traumatic event,” John said quietly.

“But I remember everything. I always remember. I remember every word he said, even now. Every single word.” The bitterness in Sherlock’s voice made John’s heart ache. “And I hit the back of his car. That’s what the official report says.”

“How did he injure his legs?”

Sherlock sat up straight. “Do you think I saw his face? That I hit his front?”

“I don’t know. Not if he wore a helmet. But maybe you did face him? Maybe his car had turned around? Maybe he lost control and ...”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t …”

“No, it’s okay. If it helps?”

“I’m being terrible,” Sherlock said, dropping his head again. “It’s not fair to you.”

“Oh come on, Sherlock. I told you that I want to be there for you. Listening to you is the least I can do.”

“It’s not right,” Sherlock said, sounding lost. John wanted to protest but Sherlock disentangled himself from him and got up, pacing the small room. “I should be able to remember. I hit my head, yes, but even if that distorted my memory, I should remember.”

John closed his eyes and forced himself to think of his accident. He winced when he felt the tire crush the window and then his shoulder once more. The pain, the knowledge that he was trapped and that life was running out of his body and into the carcass of the car. He willed himself back, feeling exhausted. “I remember,” he said, quietly.

Sherlock nodded. “That’s why you suffer. You remember it all and it haunts you. I don’t remember and I can’t, no matter what I do.”

“But they told you? They saw it happen?”

“There’s no recording. All they saw was smoke and then there’s photos of the wreckage. Blood.” Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. Then he turned to look at John.

John held out his hand. “Come back to bed,” he said quietly.

To John’s surprise Sherlock did and he let John pull him into his arms. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sherlock nodded silently.

“Do you really want to know? What if you find out that it was your fault? And what if it wasn’t?”

“I want to be angry with him, but I can’t.”

“But you regret what happened either way.”

Sherlock lay completely still. 

“You really loved him, didn’t you?” It was strange, knowing that the man he held in his arms had loved someone so deeply. He felt detached from it, as if he knew that in any other situation he would be jealous, but all he felt now was anger.

Sherlock sniffed and wiped his face again. Then he took hold of John’s arm and pulled him closer, pressing his hand against his chest. “I did,” he said quietly.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

The first thing John noticed when he woke up was that Sherlock was still there in his arms, snoring very lightly. He had to grin and he nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, nipping at his warm skin. Sherlock fell silent and then reached around to pull John closer by his hip.

“You said you move a lot,” John said quietly. “I can’t say that you do.”

“I guess it’s different when there’s someone there to hold on to,” he answered, clearing his throat and inhaling deeply. “Did you sleep alright?”

John kissed his shoulder and then pushed himself up to kiss Sherlock’s stubbly jaw. “I did.”

Sherlock turned his head to receive a kiss on the lips before he wiggled to turn on his back. There were traces of salt in the corner of his eyes and John gently kissed him again. “Sorry I woke you up.”

The smile that slowly appeared on Sherlock’s face told him that he didn’t need to feel sorry at all. “You’re still here,” he said, making John frown. 

“Where else would I be?”

“Somewhere simpler?”

“Simpler than this?” He kissed Sherlock again, deeply this time, and Sherlock made a noise between a laugh and a moan. When John broke the kiss, Sherlock was still smiling widely.

“I haven’t had sex in ages before, well, this weekend, and all I have to do is this,” John slipped his left hand between Sherlock’s legs and found him half hard already. He cocked one eyebrow, “and there I am. Really, quite simple.”

Sherlock arched gracefully into his touch and John shook his head. “God, you’re gorgeous like this.”

“How is your shoulder?” Sherlock asked, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Not as bad as I expected it to be,” John rolled his shoulder to make sure and found that he still felt sore, but nowhere near as terrible as he had felt the day before. “I guess I was lucky.”

Sherlock shuddered and John watched him, fascinated that Sherlock simply let him touch him like this.

“I never …,” Sherlock gasped and rocked up into his touch. “I never made anyone orgasm before.”

Once again, John did not quite know how to respond, so he didn’t say anything.

“I imagined it, of course, but to actually do it …”

“Yes?” John watched him closely.

“What I’m trying to say is that,” Sherlock’s hand covered John’s, forcing him to move faster. Then he stopped suddenly and turned to grab the lube from the night stand where John had left it the night before. He pressed it into John’s hand. “What I mean is … thank you for coming.”

John chuckled and squeezed lube onto his palm. “I couldn’t really help it.”

“But I …”

“You had plenty of practice, didn’t you?” John grinned.

“Not really,” Sherlock argued and pulled on John’s arm to bring his hand closer to his erection. “I just did what I had to do to not let it distract me.”

“But you know what you like. I mean, last night …” John pushed his legs apart and slipped his hand below his testicles, lingering for a moment before returning to his cock. “Have you …?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Never. I mean, my fingers, yes, but never anyone else.”

“How, without lube?”

Sherlock raised his left hand to his mouth and let two fingers slip in. John groaned and took hold of him, stroking him to spread the lube. “Do you want to?”

Sherlock bit his lip and exhaled noisily. “I don’t know.”

John nodded and leaned down to kiss him. “Let me know if you … want to experiment.”

“You don’t mind?” 

“No, god, Sherlock. You’re letting me do this,” he rubbed his index finger across Sherlock’s frenulum, making him squirm. A small noise escaped his lips when he wanted to speak. John smiled and kissed him again. “You’ve let me in so completely when I believed I would never be that lucky.”

Sherlock stilled and looked at him, his eyes clear and focused entirely on John. He dropped his hand and Sherlock didn’t complain. “I love you, John Watson,” he said quietly. “I never understood what it meant to feel this way, to love and … well, have someone reciprocate the feeling, but I am starting to.”

John felt his lower lip quiver and he sucked it into his mouth, biting down hard. He blinked the tears away that had the audacity to appear in his eyes. When that didn’t work, he quickly brushed his hand across his face and sniffed. 

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows to kiss him. His hand gently cupped John’s face and John lay down, pulling Sherlock on top of his body. Sherlock deepened the kiss and then moved away from John’s lips to kiss his face and then his chin and throat and down his chest. His right hand moved to cover the large scar on John’s shoulder and for a moment he pushed himself up again to look at John. 

“There, you’re whole again,” he whispered, stroking John’s chest with his thumb. 

This time, John did not try to hide the tears. He pulled Sherlock down and wrapped his arms around him, holding on tightly for a long time. After a few minutes, Sherlock started moving his hips minutely. He was obviously trying to create some friction without appearing to do so and John had to grin as he felt himself grow hard against Sherlock’s hips. “Use the lube,” John murmured hoarsely. Sherlock reached out to grab the bottle from the nightstand and then lifted his hips, squirting some on John’s lower belly. He dropped the bottle and scooped up a bit from John’s skin, wrapping his hand around himself once again. Then he did the same to John, who arched into his touch. 

John watched, fascinated, but he felt his shoulder tensing when he lifted his head, so he dropped it back on the pillow and grunted. 

“Everything okay?”

“Hmm,” John grinned and wiped the tears from his face. “Yeah.”

Sherlock watched him for another few seconds before he reached between them again and took hold of both of their erections. John gasped and took hold of Sherlock’s arm with which he was holding himself up. Only then John noticed how defined the muscles in Sherlock’s arm were and he felt his strength beneath his palm and fingers. “Fuck,” he moaned, holding on tighter. Sherlock seemed to take his exclamation as an affirmation that what he was doing felt good and sped up. John arched up again, imagining what it would be like to be inside of Sherlock like this. Sherlock riding him, using him to take what he wanted, what he needed. John was sure that Sherlock would spend a good amount of time figuring out how to get the best results and then blatantly use that knowledge to get himself off. 

The hand John had used to hold on to Sherlock’s arm fell to the mattress and he clasped the sheets with both hands, watching Sherlock’s face, letting his fantasy take over. A few more strokes and one open mouthed gasp from Sherlock were enough for him to lose it completely.

“What a way to wake up.” He murmured hoarsely once he had stopped shaking. 

Sherlock rolled off John and almost fell off the bed. John giggled and pulled him back onto the bed. Sherlock had come just seconds after him, pressing his forehead against John’s chest. 

“We should go down to Woking today. See how things are.”

Sherlock wiped his hand on John’s hip and shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I like it here.”

“I thought I was going to come and stay with you?” John arched an eyebrow in mock annoyance. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock grinned widely. 

John stared at him in pretended shock. “Oh no, you have discovered puns!”

Sherlock pressed his face into a pillow and shrugged, avoiding John’s eyes. “Rubbing off on me,” he mumbled and John broke into hysterical giggles. Sherlock raised his head again, clearly confused by John’s reaction. It took him a moment to understand his accidental pun and he gently punched John's arm like he had seen John do it to Jenson countless times. It made John's heart flutter.

“I am serious, though,” Sherlock tried to fight a grin, “your bed is quite comfortable.”

“We cannot stay in bed all day.”

“Yes, we can.” He gave in to the grin.

“Don’t you want to see if they will actually allow you to join me in my office?”

“You told Lestrade to do it. Do you think he’s going to go against your wishes?”

John sighed. “Bring down the trophy? Introduce you to the team properly?”

“No.”

“So we’re just going to lie here.”

“Well, depends.”

“Sherlock, I know your stamina is amazing but I can’t … I just … can’t.”

Sherlock looked as if he wasn’t sure whether he should be excited or offended. Excitement won over fairly quickly.

“Not a challenge,” John sighed, but he found it harder by the second to convince himself to get up. Breakfast would be lovely and he definitely could use some tea. But the warmth of the bed and the intense smell of sex and Sherlock made him want to give in to Sherlock’s suggestion.

The grin on Sherlock’s face became devious.

“What?” John hated that he felt the very distinct need to attach as much skin as possible to Sherlock’s naked body.

“Nothing.” Sherlock smirked and let his eyes travel down John's body. “What were you thinking of?”

“When?”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock gently pulled on John’s soft cock, slick from lube and sticky from his orgasm.

John squirmed and grunted, swatting at Sherlock’s hand.

“Come on. I told you mine, now I want to know yours.”

“You told me you barely touched me.”

“Which is the truth.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I just,” he pushed Sherlock’s hand away, “imagined making love to you.”

Sherlock stilled for a moment, watching John’s face. John realised that he was waiting for more details and he felt himself blush. 

“Fine. I imaged you on top of me, using me to get off.”

“That’s what I did.”

“Well, yes, but …”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes,” John nervously scratched his chin.

“I could try …”

“No, Sherlock. I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do. What I want doesn’t matter.”

“But the way you looked at me suggests that it could be quite pleasurable.”

John chuckled. “Could be, yeah. Can be. Very often is. But it’s something that you have to want, okay? Because it’s uncomfortable the first few times and sometimes it’s painful and feels strange and it takes a while to get used to it and it's not exactly clean and I don’t want you to do it if you’re not entirely sure about it. And you said that you’re not sure.”

“What about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What if I, umm.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him in for a fierce kiss. “You want to fuck me?”

“You make it sound vulgar,” Sherlock grinned and scrunched up his nose.

“You are adorable,” John laughed and kissed him again.

Sherlock gave him a warning look and John tried to look slightly less amused.

“Do you want to?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally.

John nodded. “That’s okay, okay?”

“I might change my mind,” Sherlock warned and John giggled again.

“Seriously, though. I want you to want it, alright?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. Now, get up. I need some breakfast.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock decided and stressed his point by pinning John to the bed.

“The bed is filthy, and so are we,” John argued but Sherlock’s face expressed absolute indifference.

“So, what do we do?”

Sherlock’s tongue flicked out to lick the corner of John’s mouth. John tried to kiss him, but Sherlock pulled back before he could reach his lips.

“That is your plan? You’re going to tease me all day?”

“Not all day. Only until …” He reached between their bodies, tugging at John.

“If we keep going like this we won’t be able to walk for a week,” John argued, stirring underneath Sherlock’s hand.

“Are you in pain?” Sherlock asked, loosening his grip a bit.

“No, not yet,” John murmured, pretending not to want Sherlock’s hand on him properly again.

Sherlock smiled and ran his fingernails across John’s chest, not hard enough to leave visible traces, but hard enough to make John arch into his touch. A satisfied hum escaped Sherlock. “I like this.”

“Oh, do you now?” John chuckled and brought Sherlock’s hand to his mouth.

“I do,” Sherlock nodded and turned his hand around, stroking his thumb across John’s lower lip. John opened his mouth and sucked it into his mouth. Sherlock shuddered when his tongue circled his thumb.

Then he crawled down John’s body until he knelt between his legs and took him into his hands. “May I?”

John chuckled. “You would know if I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Well, considering you’re currently an invalid I’m not sure whether your self-defence skills are up to scratch.” He smirked, looking up at John from underneath his eye lashes. John had wanted to complain, but the words got stuck in his throat. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered instead.

Sherlock immediately looked away and didn’t look up again until he had sucked John into full hardness. John reached down to touch his cheek and he slipped his thumb into Sherlock’s mouth, stretching his lips further, gasping when Sherlock groaned loudly.

“You know,” John started, trying hard to keep his hips from thrusting up, “the first time I allowed myself to think of you it was like this.” He pushed his hand into Sherlock’s hair and tugged gently. Sherlock looked up, his lips wet with saliva, and he smiled. John fell back and arched up. His mind had immediately gone back to his initial fantasy and the mix of imagination and reality crashed over him hard enough to make him come, even though he had been sure he was on the safe side for a while.

Sherlock choked and coughed and wiped his mouth when John kept coming still. For a moment he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to stop jerking. When he opened his eyes, he had to laugh. Sherlock looked impressed and confused at the same time. There was come in his hair and eyebrows. “What happened?” he asked, wiping his face with John’s sheet.

“You happened.” John tried to sit up and failed.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock seemed genuinely worried now.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” John chuckled breathlessly.

“So you thought of me?”

John closed his eyes, scrunching up his face. He did not really feel like talking about his repressed feelings. An old habit, he presumed. “Yeah.”

Sherlock sat up. “You’re right about the shower,” he said at length and John opened his eyes again. Sherlock already sat at the edge of the bed and John reached out to touch his back. “I woke up the other day. It was the first morning in months that I even thought of sex.”

Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. “I made a promise to you, but I think you need to make that promise, too,” he said quietly. “I wanted you since the day I met you but it seems to me that you …”

John pushed himself up on his elbows. He was touched by Sherlock concern. “See, I couldn’t allow myself to go there. I had to concentrate on building the car. I made a commitment and … Lestrade is not entirely wrong when he worries about me getting distracted.”

Sherlock sat a little straighter.

“So that morning, it was after I had looked at pictures of you the night before. Not the one I took, god, I was feeling guilty about that one. But official pictures from the weekend, and I told myself that it’s just something I have to live with if I want to work with you. I didn’t think that you could possibly think of me like that. I tried to separate what I felt for you privately with what I felt for you professionally. So when I woke up and I imagined you like this, in my bed, touching me, I felt that it was all slipping away from me. And then you just had to be in Mike’s car,” John sat up properly and joined Sherlock at the edge of the bed. “I thought you would figure it out just by looking at me.”

Sherlock looked at John, a smile playing on his lips. “In hindsight, it’s all so obvious,” he said quietly. “And I think you’re right about Mycroft.”

“What do you mean?”

“Without his meddling, I don’t think we would have made it out of that weekend with our minds and hearts intact.”

“Are they?”

Sherlock grinned and kissed John. “Never better.”

“He’s still a creeper,” John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his forehead. “We should send him a picture to make him uncomfortable.”

Sherlock turned his body towards John, a look of mock horror on his face. “Oh, he might have a heart attack.”

John giggled and reached for his phone, grunting when he felt his shoulder stretch too far. Ignoring the pain, he pushed Sherlock back onto the bed and then crawled on top of him, kissing him deeply. He took his time, remembering their first kiss and for a moment he got emotional and had to stop to look at Sherlock. "Alright?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded, hiding his trembling lips in another kiss. 

When they were both breathless and their lips were swollen and red, he took a picture of them. Sherlock took his phone from him and forwarded the image to his own phone. Then he dropped John’s phone on the bed and pulled him down again.

Only when John’s stomach grumbled loudly they decided to get up to have some breakfast. John made Sherlock shower first while he sat down on his bed, looking at his small room with the empty walls and the unartistic curtains. He had made more memories this past night than he had throughout the years he had lived here. 

When Sherlock came out of the bathroom, dripping wet with just a towel around his hips, John exhaled slowly, his heart beating heavily against his ribs. “We’re definitely going to Scotland,” he announced and pushed past Sherlock to clean himself up.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your wonderful feedback! Every word is endlessly appreciated!

John showered and shaved and took his time drying off. It amazed him to realise that he missed Sherlock, even if he was just outside the bathroom door and even though they had spent more than a day constantly side by side with the exception of the x-ray. He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering if he’d become one of those people who would get so used to another person that he’d lose the ability to be alone.

He had felt the need to be with Sherlock since the first day and that need was growing much more pronounced now. And if he was truly honest with himself, he really didn’t want it to be any other way.

“Sherlock?” he opened the door and walked into his tiny kitchen where Sherlock currently poured milk into two mugs of tea.

“Hmm?” Sherlock handed him a mug and leaned against the counter. He wore one of John’s old shirts and John reached out to touch his stomach, smiling at how strange it looked above Sherlock’s expensive trousers.

“Nothing,” John stepped back and sipped his tea.

“Lestrade called.”

“Work?”

“Publicity.”

“Interviews?”

“Photos.”

John grinned. “A drivers’ photo-shoot?”

“Just me, apparently.”

“They realised how handsome you are.”

Sherlock snorted and hid his blush behind his mug.

“Can I suggest that they make a calendar? ‘A year of Sherlock,’” John made an elaborate gesture. “Fully clothed in January to gloriously naked for Christmas.”

“Only if you’re in it, too,” Sherlock chuckled. “They want me to come in tomorrow morning.”

“Woking?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s going to be sexy, whether they want it to be or not. Lots of glass, metal and you.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock put his empty mug on the counter behind him. “Could you maybe …” he pursed his lips and looked away.

“You don’t want me there? That’s okay, I can …”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, I do want you there. I wanted to ask if you would mind being there with me.”

John nodded. “I’d love to.” 

“Good. Thanks. Umm, I didn’t ask about the weekend.”

“Do you think he won’t let us go?”

“The risk might be too great.”

John shook his head. “Not asking is not going to make him say yes. And I do want to go.”

“He might have seen the photo,” Sherlock then said quietly.

“ _The_ photo?”

“The photo.”

John and Sherlock stood in John’s tiny kitchen, staring at each other for a moment before bursting into giggles. 

“He’s never going to let us live this down,” John wiped his face and sniffed, laughing again when he imagined the disapproving look on his boss’s face that was bound to appear as soon as John so much as looked at Sherlock. “Alright, I’ll put the sheets into the laundry and then we go down.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Because if we show up for work today, chances are that we’ll be able to leave on Thursday.”

“There’s more,” Sherlock simply stated, watching John calmly.

John bit his lip. “Well, maybe I might want to try the simulator.”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the counter and wrapped John up in his arms. “Good. That’s good.”

“Not there yet,” John murmured against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock kissed his temple.

“Don’t put pressure on yourself.”

“Hmm. A little incentive might do me good.”

Sherlock chuckled and pulled back so he could look at John. “Oh, I’ll think of something.” Sherlock kissed him deeply and John let himself melt against his body. For a while he just enjoyed being so thoroughly kissed, but then Sherlock’s hand settled on his arse and John felt his own breath grow faster and when Sherlock grabbed him to lift him onto the counter, John pulled back. 

“Jesus, Sherlock.” He pushed a hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him back in, allowing himself to drown in another kiss for another moment before he sat up straight and pushed Sherlock an arm’s length away from him. “Okay, enough. I’ll never find the strength to leave the house if we keep doing this.”

“As I said …” Sherlock smirked and John slid off the counter and back against Sherlock’s lips.

“You’re addictive,” John stated and finally let go of Sherlock.

He went to strip the bed off its sheets and pushed them into the laundry basket. He’d have to come back to wash his clothes before they left, but he did not feel like doing it now. Carefully, he stretched his shoulder to see how far he could go without hurting himself. To his astonishment he could move almost without pain. Maybe that was why he was so optimistic about test-driving, even if it was just in the simulator.

He finished packing his bag and placed it next to the door. Then he turned around to look at his flat. It felt like saying good bye, he thought, sensing Sherlock in the kitchen door.

“I’ll do the washing up and then we go.”

“Already done the mugs,” Sherlock said quietly. “We can go if you’re ready.”

John looked at him, smiling widely. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before he quickly took a few steps towards the door, picked up the heavy bag and was down the stairs before John could tell whether the shimmer in his eyes had been tears or not. 

He grabbed his computer bag and followed Sherlock downstairs. The car was parked a few paces away and Sherlock waited patiently next to it. John knew Sherlock would refuse to drive, so he unlocked the trunk and let Sherlock hoist the bag in. John had packed most of his clothes, several books and folders with data he wanted to analyse, his phone charger and his toiletries, including the lube. He had found an unopened box of condoms in the depths of his night stand, but they had expired and he figured that Sherlock should have a say in which kind they should get once he was ready - if he ever would be ready.

Without a word, he started the car and made his way to Baker Street. He wanted his clothes there before driving down south and he wanted to stand in the middle of Sherlock’s living room and feel again what he had felt after the first kiss – a profound sense of belonging.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Sherlock smiled widely when he closed the door behind himself. 

John had called it their pit stop as he had dropped his bag onto the couch in Sherlock's flat. Then he had kissed Sherlock for twenty-eight seconds exactly, grabbed his trophy and quickly walked out again.

He was already sitting behind the wheel, watching Sherlock’s reaction when he came out of the door. Sherlock had changed into a button down shirt, which gave John mixed feelings. In the end he decided that Sherlock probably wouldn’t appreciate the distraction of wearing John’s clothes at work, ignoring the much more likely answer that Sherlock didn't do t-shirts in public. 

Sherlock didn’t speak for a long time, but whenever John stole a glance at him he could see that the smile was still there. 

John felt good driving like this. The sun was shining and the traffic was light and the tension of sitting next to the most attractive man John had ever met without being able to even think about it too deeply had been replaced with the happy knowledge that, if he wanted to, he could just smile at him and know that he’d get a smile in return. 

He did that a few times, always careful to drag his eyes back to the road after enjoying the small spark of happiness that ignited in his stomach everytime Sherlock looked at him. 

At Woking, Sherlock turned to John and gently placed his hand on his knee. “Can we do something?”

John raised a challenging eyebrow. “Something?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smug smile before he visibly forced himself to be serious. “Can we just … work?”

John grinned. “I didn’t exactly plan on snogging you in the middle of the hall, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Sherlock’s relieved expression made John reconsider his answer. “You really don’t want anything to be different from how it was last week.”

Sherlock nodded. John kept quiet about that fact that everything had changed.

“Should I tell Lestrade to keep the jokes to a minimum?”

“You would do that?”

“Well, either I do that or you end up saying something very inappropriate to him, so I do freely offer my services here.”

Sherlock snorted. 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Don’t worry. We’re here to work. Home is for … the rest.”

“Thank you.”

John nodded and pulled out his phone, texting Lestrade while they made their way into the building and towards his office. He was about to unlock his door when he heard his name being called from a distance. He turned to see Jenson standing in the middle of the hall, watching them with a stern expression. Sherlock slowly took a step away from John and Jenson started grinning. 

“Look at you two,” he made his way towards them, slowly, as if he seizing them up. John could practically feel Sherlock’s discomfort at being put on show without his consent. Finally Jenson reached them and stopped three feet away, still grinning. “Now this is beautiful,” he said, gesturing at the two of them and the cup. Sherlock looked at John somewhat helplessly and John decided to put Sherlock out of his misery. He stepped forward and pulled Jenson into a tight hug. Sherlock received a half-hearted punch in the shoulder.

“You’ve been strangers.”

“Sorry,” John shrugged. “Things to sort out and all that.”

“Yeah,” Jenson winked at Sherlock and John knew he regretted not asking him to text Jenson about being quiet, too. “But, you’re here now and you look … like you need a few days off, actually.” Jenson was confused by his own statement. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just … remember when I wanted to see Aki?”

“Yes, but I guess you didn’t after we talked?”

Sherlock suddenly turned away and John could see that he had blushed. Jenson narrowed his eyes but John shook his head. 

“He tortured me a bit.” John laughed at Jenson’s shocked expression. “I mean Aki. He gave me shots. Apparently he also performs miracles. I’m almost pain free at the moment.”

“Good. Good.” Jenson pushed his hands into his pockets. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said without turning around. 

“Jenson, how about we have tea later? I want to see how things are here and get him settled in.”

“So you’re staying?” The question seemed addressed to both John and Sherlock. 

“Yeah, he’s moving in,” John grinned and went to unlock the door. “Now look at that.” He stepped into his office and smiled at the new desk that stood in the right corner of the room. Their work spaces were separated by the simulator – probably due to careful planning by Lestrade – and there were chocolates on the coffee table. 

Sherlock took the trophy from John and stepped into the office without saying a word. John could not believe how shy he was all of the sudden. “Umm, I’ll see you later, Jenson, alright?”

“Sure.” He turned to go but then came back and stuck his head through the door. Sherlock flinched. “Sherlock. Relax. It’s all good.” Then he waved at John and was gone.

Sherlock pushed the door closed and exhaled slowly before he stepped into the room properly. He turned around himself once and finally stopped when he saw the look on John’s face. “Sorry,” he tried, but John shook his head. 

“Were you just shy just now or are you really turned on? Because I truly can’t tell the difference.”

“Bit of both,” Sherlock admitted. “First I remembered that you two talked about me. Well, about you. Us. About us. And then he … there’s innuendo in everything he says.”

John snorted and stepped closer to him. “Have you considered that this might be your brain’s work and not actually something he does?”

“No! No, I am positive …”

John grinned and cocked his head to the side. “And maybe your resolve isn’t holding up as nicely as you thought it would.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sherlock said with a low voice. His eyes were bright against the still persistent shade of pink on his cheeks. 

John licked his lips and raised his chin. “I’m just saying …”

Sherlock shook his head and then growled, making John stare at him wide-eyed for a second before he found himself wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms, being kissed with something bordering on desperation.

Once he had recovered his wits and started kissing back, Sherlock pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “What the hell, Sherlock?” John breathed, looking accusingly down on himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock swallowed hard and then let go of John to tug at his own hair. “You said you didn’t trust yourself with me working in the same office as you and just the thought … oh God, maybe this was a bad idea.”

John grinned and went to switch on his computer. “You know, this makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“It does?”

“Well, for one, kissing you does; or, rather, being kissed by you. But what I mean is that I thought I would end up sitting here with jitters while you’re preoccupied with data. Knowing that you will have your moments, too, makes this much more relaxing.” He turned to grin at Sherlock who looked like he was ready to grab him, drag him back to the car and drive all the way back to London to make good on his plan to keep him in bed all day. 

“Well, right,” he said eventually and slowly moved to his desk. He sat down and started his new computer, while he ran his hands across the surface of the desk. John watched him wordlessly, wondering if Sherlock had ever shared an office with anyone. “I’m glad you’re here," he admitted.

Sherlock turned around in his chair to look at John, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Me, too.”

John smiled and turned back to look at his screen. “Now, tell me. How can we improve in Germany?” 

Within moments they were right back where they had been the previous week when they had discussed Sherlock’s car. They also realised that having their desks on opposite ends of a room was less than ideal, so Sherlock ended up joining John at his desk so they could look at the necessary data together. 

The motor had held up nicely throughout training and the race itself. Even the final push, which John had dreaded in terms of wearout, hadn’t caused any greater damage. They went over the gear box and decided on some minor changes and John felt confident that even with a short holiday over the weekend, they could get the car ready for Hockenheim on time. 

“Tea?” Sherlock asked eventually when John leaned back and yawned. 

“Yes. Will you be fine around Jenson?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “Why does he have to be so … “

“He likes you.”

Sherlock sighed. “I know. I just don’t understand.”

John snorted. “You’re good, Sherlock. You’re a good driver and you’re a hard worker and you’re good for me, too.”

“I am?” Sherlock tried to hide a smile but John caught it before Sherlock managed to look merely interested. 

“Of course you are.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and pushed his chair away from the desk. “Right then. Tea, and, if there might be any way of acquiring more of that mousse au chocolat …”

For a moment, John just smiled at Sherlock, feeling delighted by the fact that Sherlock was in his office on his own account, for both professional and private reasons, and that he asked for the one thing he knew would make John feel accomplished in terms of their short history. “Yes, sure,” he eventually said and got up and followed Sherlock outside.

A few seconds passed in which John felt an unhelpful but insistent urge to kiss Sherlock, so he texted Jenson that they’d be in the cafeteria to distract himself. 

Sherlock sat down at the same table they had sat at the week before. John slowly began to realise that Sherlock drew great comfort from patterns and repetitive actions. He grabbed three cups of the mousse to join the three mugs of tea on his tray. 

Jenson arrived a minute after John had sat down next to Sherlock, who fiddled with a napkin. “Thanks for getting me tea,” he said and picked up a mug, sitting down opposite of John. “I think Anderson actually figured out a way to make me faster next race.”

Sherlock frowned and stole a glance at John who ignored him. “Anderson did not consider your fear …”

“Respect.”

“Your fear of Luffield Corner. How is he supposed to build you a winning car if he does not know how you drive.”

Jenson squared his shoulders and looked at Sherlock. “Want to share John?”

“No!” Sherlock burst out and only John’s snort made him lean back again and lower his voice. “See?” He turned to John. “He’s doing it on purpose.”

“I'm doing what?” Jenson asked and sipped on his tea.

“Innuendo.” Sherlock said, the accusation clearly audible in his voice. John turned his face away from Sherlock to hide his grin.

Jenson, however, did not think of holding back. “You, Sherlock, need to get out more.”

“I do not. You were clearly … suggesting … something.” Sherlock sniffed and turned to look at John again, silently asking for backup. John just shrugged and pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. 

“Fine,” Jenson sat up straight and put his mug down. “Let me rephrase. Would you mind lending me your genius boyfriend so he could have a look at my car and possibly suggest changes that take my … fear into consideration?”

Sherlock reached out for the first glass of dessert. “That’s up to John.”

John smiled and handed him a spoon. Instead of kissing him – which he felt was almost inevitable – he quickly squeezed his arm. “Depends. I could see if I have time tomorrow afternoon. Sherlock has a thing in the morning, it was morning, right?” he looked at Sherlock who quietly nodded around his spoon. “But if I’m done with the analysis of the car then I could see what I can do.”

“Molly,” Sherlock said before he pushed another spoonful of mousse au chocolat into his mouth.

Both Jenson and John looked at him quizzically. Sherlock sighed and exhaled slowly. “The car. Her name is Molly.”

“Oh,” John frowned. “Why?”

“Lucky name.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Childhood memory of sorts. A name from a book I read a long time ago. It doesn’t matter. It just came to me and now it’s stuck.”

“Okay,” John watched Sherlock, who seemed a bit self-conscious about having shared that information with him and Jenson. John suspected that it was his way of answering Jenson’s earnest enquiry about John’s help. 

Sherlock rubbed the nape of his neck nervously, “I’ll tell you about it later,” he said quietly and John nodded, placing his hand on the small of Sherlock's back.

“You could send me your report and I could see if I can have a look at your statistics. I think you’ve been oversteering a bit. Your back tyres didn’t look too good.”

“Yeah, especially once I got lighter, I drifted a bit.” He looked at Sherlock who quietly finished his first glass and reached out for the second. Then he looked at John who apparently didn’t find any of it strange. “So, now. I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but come on. You two are obviously together now.” He leaned over the table to lower his voice. “I want details.”

Sherlock stubbornly shovelled mousse au chocolat into his mouth while John pulled his hand back and grabbed his tea to hide behind the mug. 

“You are killing me.”

He was met with silence.

“Okay,” he leaned back and looked back and forth between them. “No details then.”

“We talked about it,” John finally offered with a shrug and he could see Sherlock swallowing hard around his spoon. 

“You _talked_ about it.” Jenson pursed his lip. “And?”

“Decided that we would like to work together.” John put his mug down calmly. 

“Wait. Are you telling me that you two are not …?” He seemed genuinely distressed. 

Sherlock gingerly reached for the third glass, but John stopped him by taking hold of his wrist. He looked at Sherlock whose face was entirely blank. That was all it took for him to start laughing. Jenson visibly relaxed when Sherlock cracked a smile, too. 

“Oh, thank god,” Jenson grinned. 

“We’d just rather not talk about it here,” John said quietly, feeling Sherlock sink lower in his chair next to him. He followed his gaze and saw Sally looking at him from across the room. Her expression was a mask of disgust and John felt himself rise before he could think about what he was doing. He made his way towards her and inhaled sharply. “Why do you have to make it worse than it already is?”

Sally almost hissed at him in answer. “I’m not surprised you keep him around. He won you a cup and now you feel all superior. But don’t forget what I said. He will tear you apart.”

John tried very hard not to get loud. He made sure to turn his back to Sherlock so that he couldn’t see his face as he spoke. “I know what happened. I know what he did.”

“Don’t you have any self-respect?” she countered, fuming now. 

“I know that he lost the only friend he ever had because your brother didn’t have the balls to admit that he loved him back.” John stopped himself, breathing heavily. He saw that Sally had grown very pale. 

“How dare you! How dare you make such an accusation when you know nothing about my brother. Nothing.”

John knew he should probably apologise and try to not make it worse for either her or Sherlock, but he simply couldn’t. She stared at him with hard eyes. “How dare you,” she almost whispered once more before she turned around and disappeared down the hall. 

John blinked his anger away. He had said much more than Sherlock would have wanted him to, he knew that. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold back and not throw something that was a mere guess in her face. He was afraid that Sherlock would be upset and that he had just jeopardised their weekend and possibly everything else between them. He inhaled deeply and ran after her.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

“Sally!” he found her in her office, still pale and visibly angry. “Can I please come in?”

“I don’t think anything you have to say will change my mind about him.”

“Let me try to explain?”

Her expression told him to back off, but he stayed where he was. “Please?”

“Fine,” she finally said and sat down behind her desk, angrily pushing paper around.

John inhaled deeply. “I am sorry about your brother, but that is not the point.”

“Nothing else is the point,” she fumed.

“No, wait. Please, let me finish. That _I_ am sorry is not the point. The point is that Sherlock is sorry. He is desperately sorry.”

“Well, sorry if I don’t believe a single word you say.”

“Can you promise me not to speak a word about this to anyone?”

“About what? About your ridiculous attempt to defend him?”

“About what I am about to say.”

“That depends on what that is, doesn’t it?” She sounded bitter. He wondered if Sherlock had ever tried to explain himself to her. Judging by her reaction, he had. Only he hadn’t told her the truth.

“Sherlock was in love with your brother,” John said, his hands in fists to ground himself. “You know that he’s not very sociable, and your brother apparently didn’t care. But he obviously cared for Sherlock, which makes all of this so much worse.”

“What’s _this_?” Sally had stopped moving. 

“His utterly insensitive way of dealing with Sherlock when he tried to talk to him about his feelings.”

“He did no such thing!” Sally looked at him with hard eyes. 

“Who didn’t?”

“Sherlock. He told my brother that his family had only funded him out of charity, not because they believed he had talent.”

John stared at her. “What?”

“That’s what he told me. Face to face, at the hospital while Victor was still unconscious.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John felt blood draining from his face. He felt light headed. “He lied to you. He lied to everyone, apparently. I guess it made it easier for him to deal with the guilt …”

“What is this rubbish about love?”

“Did you never ask your brother?”

Sally looked out of the window for a long moment before she shook her head. “No. Not about that. About the accident, yes.”

“So Victor never told you why Sherlock was so upset?”

“He was upset because he almost killed my brother.”

“He was upset because he came out to Victor and confessed that he had feelings for him and Victor …” John watched her face while his heart pounded in his chest. “I don’t know what he said exactly, Sherlock wouldn’t tell me. But your brother apparently crushed him. He broke his heart and ended their friendship. That was just before the try-outs.”

“And that justifies almost killing him?” Sally was still angry, but John could see that she was trying to make sense of what she had just heard. 

“Of course not. But it explains why Sherlock lost control. He doesn’t remember. He’s afraid that he really did intend to hurt him. But he doesn’t remember and he’s suffered every single day since then because of it.”

Sally looked at her desk, deep lines marking her usually smooth, young face.

“Sally, you know me. I’m not just telling you this to get you off his back.”

“Oh, but you’re so smitten with him, you’d believe anything he’d tell you.”

“I’ve seen him suffer,” John felt tears welling up. “He had panic attacks. He had nightmares. He really loved your brother. I know he did. And I know that he would never want me to tell you this. I don’t know what will happen now. If he’ll leave. But I had to say something. I couldn't not say something.”

“Are you in love with him?” For the first time there was a hint of softness in her voice, but John was wary of her. Any second she could turn it around to argue again that he’d blindly believe Sherlock. 

“We’re close, yes. But he never told anyone before. And I understand that you are angry, because no matter what happened exactly, your brother was hurt. I just want you to consider that he’s been suffering, too.”

“You need to leave. Now.” She sounded angry again and John forced his legs to move. “I’m sorry. I just had to say something.” He stepped outside and closed the door quietly.

Sherlock stood leaning against the wall opposite. His face was blank. 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered. His hands were shaking and he tried to breathe evenly. A panic attack was the last thing he could use at the moment. Sherlock didn’t move. “I didn’t mean to tell her.”

“I told you before that I don’t need you to defend me.” Sherlock sounded calm, but John knew that it didn’t mean that he wasn’t angry. Visible and audible anger would be easier to deal with than Sherlock’s apparent stoicism. 

“I know. And I am sorry. But she didn’t know the truth and she would have kept going on and on and …”

“So what? That’s how she’s been for years.”

John shook his head. “I know it’s hard on you. I know that it hurts you.” He forced himself to speak lower. “And it hurts to see her look at you like that.”

Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and turned to go. John watched him, stomach in knots. 

“Coming?” Sherlock asked very quietly after a few feet and held out his hand to him. 

John couldn’t suppress a pained noise when he rushed forward and took his hand. Then he tugged until Sherlock turned around and pulled him into his arms. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I love you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock hugged him tightly. For a minute or two, they simply stood like this, holding on to each other hard enough to feel each other’s heart beat. Then they both became aware of their surroundings and of noises coming from the end of the hall, so they stepped away from each other. John wiped his face, light-headed with relief, when Sherlock grabbed his hand to press a kiss against its palm. “I’m sorry,” he said again and stepped closer to press a small kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “And I'm sorry about that, too.” 

That had Sherlock smiling and they walked back down the hall together, shoulder to shoulder. A noise made John turn around and he saw Sally standing outside her office, looking at them with a strange expression on her face. John quickly turned around and put another few inches of distance between himself and Sherlock.

Back in their office, John sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock let him sit there while he sorted through some of the paperwork that he found on his desk. “Lestrade sent me a contract,” he said after a while. 

John looked up. He still felt light-headed. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around to look at him and finally his composure crumbled. He walked over to John and sat on the coffee table, leaning forward and into John’s embrace. John kissed his cheek and after a moment Sherlock turned his face to kiss him properly. He moved from the table to John’s lap and soon they were kissing in earnest, both of them glad to still have each other. 

“She had no idea.”

“She wasn’t supposed to.”

“I might have said something problematic,” John worried his lip with his teeth. “Not the truth, just a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“I told her … I think that Victor liked you, too.”

“You did?” Sherlock frowned at John. “You do?”

“Why else would he have reacted like that? Consider this. Your family spends all that money on him and now he has a chance to prove that he’s good and that the investment was worth it. And then this amazingly attractive boy tells him he likes him.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. 

“What would your family say? The media? He’d never be able to drive if he was out. Not then. Not now. I know how it is. I know that what I did when you won was very risky. I know why your brother wants me to stay away from you.”

“But the things he said …”

John nodded and pulled him down to gently kiss him. “Panic.”

“You think he liked me and panicked when I told him.”

“I don’t know. I think that it is a possibility. You said you were naïve, but I think you trusted him, and that it not the same. And if he was a good friend, and I take from your brother’s file that he was, he would have cared about you deeply either way. If he wasn’t afraid of what he felt he wouldn’t have overreacted.” John swallowed hard, knowing that he was moving on brittle ground. “But I don’t want to put any ideas in your head that might not be true after all. It just came out when I talked to Sally and she said she never knew anything about that. About your feelings for him.”

“No one was supposed to know.”

John nodded, knowing that he had overstepped a boundary and that it was in Sherlock’s hands to decide to either forgive him or to leave. “Do you want to write him that letter?”

Sherlock stood up and held out his hand to John. “Not now. We have other things to do.”

“We do?” John let himself be pulled to his feet by Sherlock.

“Yes.” He walked over to John’s desk and started the simulator. “We do.”

John stared at the screen which flickered to life. In all of his confusion and guilt he had forgotten his initial plan. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned around and looked at him, his face inexpressive again. 

“Do you forgive me?” Sherlock blinked several times as if trying to compute what John had asked of him. “Are we okay?”

Sherlock cocked his head and frowned. “I think I do.”

“You think?”

“John, I’m not … I never … things always just happen and then I move on and …”

“And I can’t. I need to know that you are not secretly angry with me. I need you to be honest with me. And if you are angry, be angry, but tell me.”

Sherlock sat down on John’s desk chair, staring ahead into nothing. “I’m angry, yes,” he finally said and focused on John again. “I’m also very glad that you are here with me and I am slightly aroused by the fact that you held me like you just did, and I am nervous, because I am about to ask you to drive the simulator and I know that you are already quite close to a panic attack. and I really do like the way your hair looks right now.” He closed his mouth and looked away. 

John stared at him, open mouthed. “Okay,” he said breathlessly. “Okay, good. Good. Erm. I mean, erm. If I can do anything to make you less angry, let me know, yeah?”

“Well, you could take your shirt off, but I think that goes against the rules we agreed on earlier.”

John giggled and felt profound relief rush through him. He exhaled noisily and walked over to the simulator. “I’m sorry,” he sat down and grabbed the steering wheel. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

Sherlock used the desk chair to roll over to the simulator, making John smile at the silliness of the act. Then he leaned in for a kiss. “We’re okay,” he said quietly, and John sniffed and pulled back. “Okay, let me try this. Any track will do.”

Sherlock opened the programme and started John on the track he had driven a week before. “You designed it, it should be okay for you to drive it.”

John felt his palms sweat and he wiped them on his jeans. Then he exhaled slowly and concentrated on the screen. The lights went on and he held his breath, remembering for a moment how brilliantly Sherlock had taken the track, knowing that he wouldn’t be anywhere as good. Then the red lights disappeared and he pushed down on the accelerator. The track flew past him and he tried to remember the corners and turns, slowing down a little too early but making it around the track once without leaving the tarmac. 

“Well done,” Sherlock smiled and added rain to the setting. “Go again.”

John smiled at him and pulled up his shirt to his neck, exposing his stomach and chest. He enjoyed Sherlock’s confused expression. 

He made it through the second lap in rain and once he had crossed the finish line, he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it at Sherlock. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, his ears going a bit red.

“Celebrating,” John grinned. “Give me wind.”

Sherlock changed the settings and this time John drove off track. For a few seconds he just sat in his seat, staring at the screen and the nose of his car which had smashed against the digital wall. Then he let out a shaky breath and motioned Sherlock to restart the programme. He made it through half the track before spectacularly flying out of a corner, flipping over the car and sending it into the darkness beyond the virtual track. 

“Fuck.”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock was already changing the settings again. He also changed the track to Bahrain. John looked at him, pressing his hands against his thighs. Sand would be a problem. He was driving a Formula 1 car, but he knew what Sherlock was doing. He felt he owed it to him to at least try, so he started on the track. He did well, all things considered, and he could feel Sherlock almost vibrate next to him. When he finished the lap he leaned back and unbuckled his belt. 

“John, no!”

“What?” 

“That wasn’t good enough to justify your jeans.”

“Ouch. Baby steps, remember?”

“Separate offices, remember?” he mocked John and threw his shirt back at him. “Put it back on.”

John sighed and pulled his shirt over his head. Only a minute later a knock made them both jump. Lestrade stuck in his head and he looked almost disappointed when he saw Sherlock sitting a few feet away from John. Sherlock gave John the most telling ‘I told you so’ look he had ever received from anyone in his life while Lestrade suddenly started smiling. 

“You’re driving?”

“Well, pretending.”

“Good. Great.” He stepped into the office. “You two getting along in here?”

“Why are you here?”

“Checking up on you. Jenson said you disappeared for a while and that Sherlock needs a restriction in terms of dessert portions.”

“Yeah, I had some things to talk over with Sally.”

“Things?”

“Things. And I don’t think Jenson should complain about dessert portions when I distinctly remember that he always ate all the strawberries from the fruit plate when we had those.”

“Right. Erm, so, is your shoulder better? Aki will be down tonight for a briefing, if you want him to have a look again?”

“I’ve been feeling quite good, but yes, I would like for him to have a look and suggest physio exercises. By the way, do you think I could extend my sick-leave till Monday?”

Lestrade looked hard at John and then at Sherlock. “Did you ask him to go to Scotland with you?”

John stared at his boss and then at Sherlock, who looked like nothing about this conversation was surprising to him. 

“I would appreciate his company, yes,” Sherlock finally said. 

“How did you know about Scotland?”

“Sherlock always goes up north on the coming weekend. Mycroft keeps talking about it as if he’d rather keep Sherlock down here.”

“Why?”

“That he never told me.”

“Mycroft occasionally leaves things at the house that I am not supposed to find.”

John made a face. “I don’t think I want to know what you are talking about.”

“Money, mostly,” Sherlock grinned. “So, do you think he could have the weekend off if we both come in tomorrow? We’ve already ordered the replacement parts for the motor and if I start testing on Monday, we can have the car ready to go by Wednesday.”

“None of that is in your contract,” Lestrade warned Sherlock, who shrugged. “It says sufficient work hours. We’ll get it done. And John needs some time to … relax.”

“When do you plan on leaving?”

“Thursday morning. Back Sunday night.”

“You’ll do the photo shooting tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And John will see that the car is intact by tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Take your phones. I want to be able to reach both of you at all times.”

“Yes, dad,” John grinned and turned back to the screen. “Let’s do this again.”

Lestrade smiled lopsidedly at them and closed the door on his way out. 

“That was easy,” Sherlock programmed the track again, adding wind and low sun. “Imagine if you had sat here half naked.”

“He would have been pleased. I’m sure he was disappointed because we weren’t shagging on your new desk.”

Sherlock coughed nervously and John grinned at him. “I apologise for the shirt.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“No, I don’t,” he said smugly and leaned back to tackle the track. He managed to be faster this time and his driving style became more daring with each lap he drove. Sherlock was quiet, but John could feel how excited he was. 

“I wish I could race you,” he finally said when John had finished ten laps without going off-track.

“You wouldn’t even see me, except when you drove past me every other lap.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I think you’d be much more competitive if I were on the track with you.”

John exhaled slowly and leaned back in his seat. “It wasn’t so bad. I thought it would be much harder.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“But why? I got nervous just thinking about it and now I just did it and nothing bad happened.”

“Perspective,” Sherlock offered quietly. “You were worried about me, so you couldn’t be scared of driving.”

“I was worried about us, yes. Scared, too.”

“Not of the simulator and not of accidents.”

“No,” John admitted. “Scared of being an inconsiderate arse and ruining the best thing that has happened to me in years.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you said you forgave me? So you could trick me into not being scared of driving?”

“No. What you did hurts, but I know why you did it. You told me that you would defend me, even if I don’t want you to, so I have no right to be angry with you.”

John sat back and looked at him sternly. “You have every right to be angry with me.”

“Well, I’m not now. I am glad that you managed to do what you were scared of for so long.”

“And you still want me to come to Scotland with you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

John rubbed his face. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded and then walked over to his desk. “Pen?” 

John got out of the simulator and grabbed a pen from his desk. He flicked it across the room and Sherlock caught it without looking. Shaking his head, John sat down at his own desk and began thinking about Molly’s nose. He wondered whether he could slim her down slightly to make her even faster without jeopardizing the stability of the car on the track.

Sherlock signed the contract and began analysing Hockenheim races from the past. 

For the next hour, they both worked in silence. John tried to make sure that he’d have all the parts for the car down in the morning so he could rebuild it in the afternoon when Sherlock was with him. He wanted him to watch him work again and he remembered how careful Sherlock had been with the car. 

It felt strange, knowing so much more about Sherlock now than he had just a week before.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your enthusiastic comments <3

John yawned and stretched, testing the flexibility of his shoulder. He should go and see Aki, so he would know how to treat his shoulder when they were gone. Driving up to Scotland would be a challenge simply because he would drive for such a long time. Maybe he could talk Sherlock into massaging his shoulders every evening.

He turned in his chair to find Sherlock deeply engrossed in tables of data. John felt that no matter how much he knew about cars, he would never be able to even come close to what Sherlock’s brain could do with the data that was available to him. His driving talent seemed almost secondary to his knowledge about the physics of racing and the behavioural patterns of the other drivers, never mind his knowledge of the car. 

“I’ll go and see Aki about my shoulder,” he said quietly, not really wanting to disturb Sherlock, who gave a quick nod without looking up from his screen. John quietly left the room and made his way to the medical centre in the lowest storey of the building. For a few moments, he wondered why Sherlock had been so understanding. He had said things to Sally that he knew nothing about. If she confronted Victor with any of what he had said, Sherlock might have to suffer the consequences and get hurt even more. Maybe getting out of the south would be a good thing. Despite the terrible feeling of having failed Sherlock, he couldn’t help but smile when he thought about spending the weekend with him, entirely alone and with no obligations.

John reached the medical centre and was directed to Aki who greeted him with a crooked smile when he saw him. “I can see that you are much better,” he said and immediately made him sit down. A few practiced prods and stretches later, he nodded to himself. “Good, good. You’re healing well. It was a good thing that you saw me when you did. The inflammation seems to have almost disappeared. 

“So I’m safe from needles for the moment?”

“It seems so, yes. As long as you don’t overdo it, you should be fine. I’ve already printed out a stretching routine that I want you to stick to for the next ten days. No excuses. You should start working out again, too. Come back next week so I can see if I can assign you a personal trainer.”

“Is that necessary?”

“If you want to properly heal, then yes. You might feel alright now, but your muscles are not strong enough to compensate properly and you need to get your blood flowing. That you are not in pain right now is a trick of your mind. Your body has not healed, but you are so used to being in pain that a low level of pain feels like nothing much. Once you're healed, you will learn again what it feels like to not be in pain.”

John nodded. He wanted to. For a long time, his injury had held him back and offered him excuses. For the first time since the accident, he truly wanted to heal. John swallowed down the feeling of awe that overcame him for a moment. 

“Thank you,” he finally managed and took the prints. “And thanks so much for the shots.”

“Holmes is right. You do carry yourself differently,” Aki said while he was already busying himself with clearing his work space. “You walk taller.”

John nodded. “I’m trying.”

The physician smiled and nodded his good bye. “Do take care of yourself. A lot of people want you back down in the pits, not just Lestrade.”

“Wait, what did you hear? “ John knew that the team physician heard a lot of confessions from a lot of people. 

“Oh, just the general tenor. You’ve been doing well.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Aki grinned and turned his back to John who left the room wondering who might have talked about him.

Instead of going back to his office, he called Jenson. “Sorry, do you have a minute?”

“Are you okay? It seemed a little heated earlier. Sally must have been upset about something.”

“Come on, you know that she’s upset about Sherlock.”

“He’s not with you?”

“No, he’s working.”

“And?”

“I’ve done something terrible.”

“Where are you?”

“Medicals.”

“Okay, meet me in the foyer?”

“Right.”

John exhaled slowly, taking stock of his emotions. He had spent so much time trying to control what he felt last week that it now seemed very strange to just let all of it overwhelm him. When he saw Jenson wait for him by the entrance, he realised that it had not just been last week, but a full year of suppressed emotions and fears. Meeting Sherlock had brought more changes to his life than he had expected or understood until now. 

“You don’t look too chipper,” Jenson greeted him. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” John said quietly, squinting at the afternoon light. 

“John. I hate to rain on your parade but I think you got the wrong end of the stick here …”

“I’m sorry I just walked off,” John said, walking out of the building and into the warm summer air. 

“What happened?”

“Sally hates Sherlock and I learned why she does and I tried to explain to her that he’s not all that bad and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. And I did the one thing I know Sherlock never would have wanted me to do.”

“Did you two talk about it?”

“A bit, but not really. He said he’s hurt but he’s being too ... nice about it. And he isn't _nice_ , normally. It's as if he is worried that if he got mad I might leave him or something.”

“You are aware that you’ve only been together for what … two days?”

“Nine,” John said, closing his eyes for a moment to watch Sherlock extend his hand to him for the first time. 

“Okay,” Jenson made a face that very clearly told John that he thought that counting the first meeting as the decisive moment was beyond ridiculous, but John couldn’t help but feel that it was true. “And that’s not the point.”

“So what is the point?”

“This, all of this,” John stretched out his arms. “I’ve finally built a car again. I’ve reached a level of trust which allows me to at least imagine that I will be okay building cars without killing anyone. And I’m so god damn deeply in love with him that I would throw everything away just to be with him. And he doesn’t like it here. There is enough history here to hurt him. And yet, he just signed a contract. He signed a contract so he can sit in my office and calculate lap times. He bound himself to a place he hates and that hates him, because of me. I don’t know how to deal with all of this.” He stopped to breathe, closing his eyes against the light. “And I just made sure that it’ll be even harder for him to be here. I’m such an arse.”

“John, calm down,” Jenson grabbed his shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. “What did you do?”

“I gave Sally leverage against him.”

“Of the legal kind?”

“Personal. Though I’m not even sure whether that is a legal issue or not.”

“But he signed the contract.”

John nodded.

“And you at least tried to talk to him about this.”

John nodded again.

“And he still wants to stay?”

“I don’t know. He signed after I told him what I had done, but I feel that he’s doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“John. You go and tell him exactly what you just told me now. I love you, mate, but you need to stop running away from this. He’s in your office now, working with you. If anything, I guess that tells you that you are quite important to him. He was also incredibly polite after you had left, and he seemed to know why you were going after Donovan.”

“I am being stupid about this, aren’t I?”

“You’re in love. You’re being stupid because you’re scared of mucking things up. But see, this man is just as much in love with you as you are with him. And I am not making this up. I don't think I've ever seen two people who adored each other so much. And it seems that he’s not willing to let go of you anytime soon, otherwise he’d have walked away a long time ago.”

“And when did you get so wise about love?”

Jenson grinned. “Jess.” 

“How?”

“She’s so much better than me. And I was a cock quite a lot of times, bragging about races, bragging about my dad. Just generally misguided wooing.”

John smiled. “We all know you’re an arse. She must have known what she was getting herself into with you.”

Jenson laughed. “Ouch. But since you’re making a right cock of yourself right now I forgive you.”

John laughed out loud and shrugged. “So?”

“She stayed and made sure I knew that I was being stupid. She would tell me after each date what exactly it was that I had been trying to say with my bragging …”

“But I can’t read his mind.”

“No, but you know him very well. And he knows you. He knows people, in an occasionally creepy and calculating way.”

John had to chuckle. “Yes. Yes, I suppose he does.”

“So if he’s still in your office when you come back, you can be fairly sure that he intends to stay. And whatever made him decide to sign that contract seems more important to him than you talking to Sally.”

John nodded. Jenson was right. Sherlock wouldn’t just have signed the contract if he truly hated working here at Woking. He had been decidedly against John’s quitting, but even that wouldn’t have made him bind himself to the company. John sighed. He had access to cars and to any technical equipment he could wish for. He had a boss who supported him, and a partner. All of these elements were important to Sherlock and John knew that maybe he was a little too focussed on his own role in all of this. 

His phone chimed and John fumbled for it in his jeans. _Where are you?_

He apologised to Jenson, who grinned at him and walked away. _Went to see Aki._

_Come back here!_

John swallowed hard. _Everything okay?_

_Come back!_

He pocketed his phone and jogged all the way back to his office. He felt silly, but he knocked anyway, not wanting to just barge in. Sherlock opened the door and grabbed his wrist, pulling him inside. A second later the door was closed behind him again and Sherlock pressed him against it, one hand against his chest, the other in the air between their bodies, unsure of where to settle. John didn’t know whether he should be worried or turned on. At first glance, nothing seemed wrong with Sherlock. He didn’t seem angry, despite the blush which graced his cheeks. John looked down on the hand on his chest when his eyes settled on Sherlock’s middle.

“I thought something might have happened to you,” he said quietly.

“Something did happen.” Sherlock was breathless.

“Are you alright?” John frowned, searching his face for anything to tell him whether it was just arousal or something more.

“I missed you. I turned around and you were gone!” He sounded slightly petulant.

“I told you I’d see Aki about my shoulder.”

“I remembered when you texted me.” The petulance had made room for embarrassment. 

“So …”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and pulled his hand back to give John some space and started chewing on his lower lip as if to distract himself. 

“You missed me.” He felt his worries dissipate.

“I …,” Sherlock took another step away from him.

John licked his lips and watched Sherlock’s eyes settle on them. “Want me to help you with that?” he indicated Sherlock’s obvious erection with his chin. 

Sherlock squared his shoulders and John worried that he might pop off a button or two when his shirt spanned tightly across his chest. It also made John want to help ease the strain and unbutton the shirt. 

“This is terrible,” Sherlock said quietly, as if in awe of the whole situation.

“What exactly is terrible?” John wanted to know what precisely offended Sherlock. He hoped it wasn’t the fact that he was now slowly squeezing himself through his jeans. He enjoyed seeing Sherlock’s chest and neck gaining colour more than he would ever admit.

“I apologise for my inappropriate remark earlier.” Sherlock took yet another step away from John and then turned around and away from him in a sharp motion.

“What inappropriate remark?”

“About your shirt.”

“Why do you apologise?” John asked and carefully pulled his shirt up and over his head. 

“Because it made you believe that I was trying to distract myself and it … inspired you to take it off, which made me … which caused me to … well, this. The memory of …,” he turned around and stared at John with wide eyes. 

John leaned back against the door and smiled. “I apologise for being inappropriate,” he said under his breath and opened his trousers. This time, Sherlock didn’t stop him.

Instead, he only kept staring, his jaw slack, his hands useless by his sides. Only when John yanked his jeans and pants down to his feet, Sherlock shook himself out of his shock. He quickly passed his hand over his face as if to make sure that he wasn’t imagining the whole thing before he inhaled sharply and rushed forward. John grunted when Sherlock pressed him against the door once more and this time he used his whole body.

They kissed each other furiously and desperately and John felt that Sherlock put a lot of his anger into the kiss. He felt it particularly when Sherlock’s lips left his mouth to suck hard at his throat. “God, Sherlock. Lower. Lower, they mustn’t see.” He knew he should be quiet, but found that he couldn't bring himself to care. 

Sherlock stopped for a moment to glare at John before returning to the exact same spot, adding teeth to his sucking now. John’s knees buckled and Sherlock grabbed his arse and pulled him up, effectively pinning him two feet in the air against the door with his body. John kicked at his shoes and got rid of his trousers and instinctively wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips. He forced Sherlock’s face up to kiss his lips again. 

They both stopped kissing at the same time, breathing heavily against each other’s lips, eyes closed, both remembering the moment John had found himself in a similar position after the race. 

“What am I going to do with you,” Sherlock murmured quietly, all anger gone, his arms tightening around him. 

John pressed a kiss to his head and looked down on him. “I have quite a few suggestions, if you need any inspiration.”

Sherlock laughed and pressed his face against John’s chest. “It can’t be normal to want someone so much!”

John reached down to open the first button he could reach on Sherlock’s shirt. “Normal, really? You of all people are talking about normal?”

“We’re going to have to get different offices,” Sherlock argued and made room for John’s hand to open more buttons.

“Not if we’re not found out,” John grinned and wriggled until Sherlock let go of his arse. He continued with Sherlock’s shirt until he could push it off his shoulders. Then he started on his trousers. “And, by the look of it, we’re going to be done fairly soon,” he giggled and pushed Sherlock’s expensive trousers to his knees. 

For a few seconds they looked at each other and then Sherlock took a single step forward and John attacked his chest with his mouth while Sherlock’s hand wrapped around them both. 

John rose to stand on his toes and Sherlock stood with his legs apart as far as his trousers allowed in order to be level with John. All John wanted was for Sherlock to continue to stroke him as awkwardly as he did, barely able to move his hand between their bodies and for him to remain as responsive as he was when John started kissing his neck. 

Before he came, John pushed Sherlock away a bit. “No mess,” he grunted, taking himself in hand and stroking until he came, catching his come in his right hand. Sherlock watched with wide eyes and followed suit, stumbling forward when he came. 

For a long moment they stood pressed together, awkwardly trying not to get come on their clothes, breathing heavily. 

“How do we clean up?” John murmured after a while, realising that they’d have to walk all the way to the toilets to do it properly. Sherlock chuckled and kissed him quickly. 

“Do you have any tissues here?”

John looked down on his hands and shrugged, crossing the room to pull open a drawer on his desk with his toes. Then he pulled at the tissue protruding from the box and managed to lift the whole box with it and carried it back to Sherlock without making a mess. Tugging several tissues out of the box, Sherlock wiped his hands and then his stomach and legs. 

John cleaned himself up as best as he could before retrieving is underwear and jeans. “Do you want to go first?”

“Sure,” Sherlock smirked and pulled John in for another kiss. “This is ridiculous!” 

John laughed and kissed him back. “Go, clean up.”

Sherlock half-heartedly pushed his shirt into his trousers and left the room. John decided not to tell him that their little acrobatic act had left some visible traces of John’s arousal at the front of it. He grinned and opened the blinds to the window which he usually kept closed and pushed the window open. Warm air rushed into the air conditioned room and John inhaled deeply. He had expected all kinds of different reactions from Sherlock after leaving him alone for a while, and desperate need had not been any of them. Maybe he just needed to get out of his own head. 

He waited by the window until Sherlock came back. “Should we paraphrase our agreement?” John grinned when Sherlock stepped behind him and nuzzled his neck. “Because I feel that if we leave all options open, we might not be so desperate to break the rules.”

“Sounds reasonable, at least in theory.” He leaned back into Sherlock. “What happened?” 

“I thought of the race in Germany which for some reason reminded me of you driving without a shirt on and then I remembered that I have seen you naked and I just didn’t know what to do.”

John turned around, grinning widely. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Well, there was a compliment in there somewhere,” he giggled and kissed Sherlock gently. “I’ll go wash.”

He stopped in the door to watch Sherlock sit down heavily on his chair. He looked tired and John reminded himself that they both needed to drink more water. He would get a few bottles and then take Sherlock out for dinner.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sherlock was immersed in data again when John came back. He put a bottle of water next to him and felt a small spark of joy shoot though him when Sherlock looked up to smile at him quickly. Sherlock had smiled a lot during these past few days and John felt a little more relaxed about the whole situation remembering that. 

He felt relieved that Sherlock had wanted him. He felt relieved that Sherlock had just let it happen. He felt relieved that despite of what he had done, Sherlock still seemed very much interested in a partnership, both of the personal and the professional kind. 

John sat down to finish his adjustment plan and emailed Mike about the parts he’d need in the morning.

Mike immediately emailed back. _Everything alright? You've been MIA._

John sighed and typed his answer, interrupting himself a few times to look at Sherlock who was entirely focused on his work. Getting rid of his frustration seemed to have calmed him down enough for him to be able to concentrate again. He told Mike that nothing about the doubts anyone had voiced about Sherlock were justified and that he was glad that his friends were supportive. He also apologised for his anger about Mike’s warning. He understood slowly that his friends had been moe concerned about him than about Sherlock. Mike in particular knew how easily John was thrown off the course of recovery and that Sherlock's appearance in his life could very well have had a negative impact. 

“John?” Sherlock stretched and pulled at his hair, causing it to stick out in odd angles before he ruffled it thoroughly. Then he turned around to look at John with a gleam in his eyes. “I want to race you.”

John stared at him, feeling trapped all of the sudden. “What?”

“I want to race you in the least dangerous scenario you can imagine.”

John exhaled slowly. Good. No real race then. “Umm. Snail race? Turtles? Paperclips?”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m finished here. Can we go home?”

“What are you on about?”

“Have you finished?”

“Yes, almost, but … what are you talking about?”

Sherlock grinned smugly and rose from his chair. “Let’s go.” 

John continued to stare at him for another few seconds before he turned around to finish and send off his email. Sherlock rolled over to his desk in his chair and rested his head against John's shoulder as he switched off his computer. John grinned and gently petted Sherlock's hair. "You ridiculous man," he wispered affectionately and kissed him.

Apparently satisfied with John's reaction, Sherlock jumped up and opened the door. Grabbing the sheet with his exercises and his wallet, keys and phone, John followed Sherlock outside. “I want to take you out for dinner.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Could we order in?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. I know a lovely Indian place we can order from. I want you home.”

John felt heat settling in his stomach. "Alright."

"Good."

During the ride back to London John noticed how tired he was. Despite the calm of the last few hours, he felt the guilt and emotional pain dragging him down still, leaving him exhausted while he simultaneously felt a little jittery from their stunt in his office. Sherlock had wanted him badly. He had physically wanted him and he had been so helpless and confused by it. John had never been ashamed of his body and he was not overly self-conscious about his scar, but to have someone like Sherlock wanting him that much made John feel very special. 

“Do you want me to drive the rest of the way?” Sherlock offered when John yawned twice within a single minute. 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Sherlock watched him silently and after a few minutes John became self-conscious. “What?” he looked at Sherlock, who kept looking at him. 

When John blushed, Sherlock chuckled. “This. I’m enjoying this.”

John pouted and tried to concentrate on the road. He could still see Sherlock smile out of the corner of his eye. 

“Should I let Jenson win in Germany?” Sherlock asked after a while.

John turned to face him, scandalised. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because he would hate it. And you’re supposed to drive my car to another win, understood?”

Sherlock smirked and cocked his head to the side. “What if I don’t win?”

“Then you don’t win. But I don’t want you to not give your best.”

“You wouldn’t be mad?”

“If you don’t win? I wouldn't be mad, no, but I want you to win. You looked good up there on top of the podium.”

“If I win twice, Stoffel and Kevin will have a problem,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“They are both out sick. Their problem is that they can’t drive right now. You winning means that every single driver currently in the competition learned that the gloves are off and that you are either incredibly lucky, which I am sure is the official story, or you’re just that good and everyone needs to reconsider their approach to the sport, which is the truth.”

Sherlock’s eyes had widened at John’s words. “You’re serious. You really think I’m that good?”

“You are that good. I know you are.”

Sherlock turned his face away to look out of the window. After a few moments his hand settled on John’s, which rested on the gear shift. 

“Thank you.”

“You should be a regular driver. If anything, Trevor kept you from a brilliant career.” John bit his lip, hoping that the reference to Victor Trevor wouldn’t upset Sherlock again.

“It would have been a regular, tedious job.”

John looked at him and shook his head. “There is nothing regular or tedious about this job. It’s hard work, but it’s brilliant and unusual and you’d have been a world champion within a few seasons.”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “I would have grown bored or frustrated. I would have demanded too much and done too little. I would have caused accidents and been punished for it. I might be a good driver, but I was never a good team player. Never.”

“But now? What about now?”

“Now there’s you,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

“Right,” John scoffed and Sherlock turned his whole body towards John. 

“I am serious.”

John felt his heart in his throat. “I’m sorry. It just seems to me that …,” he turned his left hand around and intertwined their fingers. “You are so good at what you do. I know you could be brilliant wherever, whenever.”

Sherlock stroked John’s hand with his thumb. “My heart hasn’t been in any of this until last Monday.”

“But you were amazing. I mean, you were also killing that car, but you were fantastic.”

“It’s not just the driving I’m referring to. I know I can drive. I know how to do it. But I don’t have to think about it, I just do it on auto pilot. My whole life has been on auto pilot since the accident.” 

John felt his eyes sting. It was not how he felt about his own life after the accident, but he knew what Sherlock meant. And his accident had happened a little over a year ago. Sherlock had lived with his experience for a decade. “Does it feel muted, like driving with the brakes on?”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. 

John swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I was afraid to even laugh, to drink, to joke around. I couldn’t speak when I was working because I concentrated so hard on not making a mistake.”

“I was constantly angry,” Sherlock admitted, looking out of the window again, needing distance. “Not with Victor. But with Mycroft and with Greg and with myself and Sally. I was never angry with anyone who mattered.”

John slowed the car down, realising he had almost driven them home without paying attention. Traffic had been surpringsly light. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth to kiss it before he needed his own hand back to shift the gear. 

“I was never angry with anyone who felt sorry for offending me.”

“I am,” John said quietly. “I truly am sorry that I hurt you.” He took a right onto the A40. The silence that followed his apology settled heavily in the car. 

When they reached Marylebone Road, Sherlock turned back to look at him again, his eyes bright. “I’ve never forgiven anyone. I never knew how it felt to forgive.”

John parked the car in Baker Street close to Sherlock's place and cleared his throat. The tightness had returned. 

He had had his fair share of break ups and painful fights and reconciliations. None of these moments seemed to have mattered as much as Sherlock’s answer would matter to him now. “Do you think you can forgive me?”

Sherlock sank back in his seat and looked at John for a long moment. “I already have,” he then answered, very quietly. 

John grabbed his neck and pulled him close for a kiss. “I’m sorry.”

“It feels strange,” Sherlock admitted. “Not the kissing. That I would have expected to feel strange, but it feels strange not to be angry with you after what you did. How did you do that?”

John laughed, a relieved, tired laugh, and kissed him again. “I dazzled you with sex. That’s how it works.”

Sherlock chuckled and pulled back. “Are you staying?”

“God, yes, Sherlock. Of course I am staying. I’m staying for as long as you will have me!”

Sherlock looked away bashfully. “Good,” he almost whispered and got out of the car. 

John sat quietly in the car for a few minutes, trying to calm his beating heart. It appeared that the rollercoaster of emotions he had experienced last week had only been a prelude to what he went though now. 

He saw a young man enter the door of 221 Baker Street and he got out of the car, locked it carefully and followed him. To his surprise, he found him standing in the living room, handing over a carton box to Sherlock, who pressed some money into his hand. “Thank you, Raz,” he said and watched him leave. The young man smirked at John when he passed him and closed the door on his way out. 

“Who was that?” John asked, both curious why a young man felt entirely at ease in Sherlock’s flat and why that the exchange had held something familiar as if it was not the first time something like this had taken place there. 

“I told you. I want to race you.” Sherlock set down the box and opened it, using a sharp piece of scrap metal which had stuck in his mantel piece only a moment before. He produced an Xbox 360 and several games.

John’s initial reaction was to laugh. “You want to race me in a computer game?”

Sherlock smirked. “You’ll see how little this has to do with games once we get started.”

“Is that a threat or a challenge?”

“A promise,” Sherlock flashed him a grin and went to hook up the game to his television set. 

For a moment John tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was on his knees and bent over on the carpet while he fumbled with the cables, but he found that watching him was much better than trying not to, particularly since Sherlock couldn’t see him anyway.

In any case, John decided that since Sherlock had pretty much gone ahead and shoved him against the door of his office, he shouldn’t be too ashamed to blatantly stare at his arse and finely curved back. He also found that he wanted Sherlock in exactly the same position, but without any clothes on. A small noise escaped him and Sherlock turned his head to find John flustered but still openly staring. 

Sherlock rose to his feet, grinning widely. “Oh, John Watson. I’ve seen you look at me like this before, only I had no idea then what you were thinking.”

John cleared his throat. “Just appreciating the view.”

“Or maybe I’m manipulating you into losing without you realising.”

“Maybe you underestimate me when I’m turned on.”

Sherlock lifted a challenging eyebrow and pushed a CD into the box. Then he selected a game and held out one controller to John. “On the carpet.”

“Kinky,” John chuckled and sat down, readjusting himself in his jeans to make his arousal more bearable. Sherlock dropped down next to him and selected his car. A Ferrari. John growled, much to Sherlock’s amusement, and chose the 2013 season McLaren.

Ten minutes later, John felt out of breath. When Sherlock had said he wanted to race him, it hadn’t been an understatement. He tailed him closely and cut into his line several times and eventually managed to get John angry enough to just drive into him and push them both off track.

Sherlock gave John a judgemental look as he restarted the game. 

This time John really tried to be faster than Sherlock and he managed to hold him back for an entire lap before Sherlock overtook him and gained ten seconds on him in the next one. He had the audacity to stop his car and wait for John to catch up. 

“Wanker,” John murmured when he drove past him, knowing very well that it was only a matter of seconds before Sherlock would shoot past him again. 

Sherlock edged forward, not too fast, but certainly sure of what he was doing. On the straight, he pushed hard, but John pulled to the left, closing the track to him and anticipating that Sherlock would veer to the left for a moment only to return to the right as it was a better line to enter the next corner. A small annoyed noise from Sherlock made John grin, and it made him want to fight harder.

Sherlock attacked again, but John barred his way. Neither car was as fast as the real thing would have been, so Sherlock couldn’t simply accelerate and pass John by. Instead he was stuck, trying to find a way around him. He finally managed in a corner, only to over-steer and find himself off track for a moment. John drove past him and managed to get a few seconds between them.

He grinned when he checked Sherlock’s half of the screen to see himself way ahead of him, disappearing behind corner after corner. It was only on the straights that Sherlock got closer again and John swore loudly when he suddenly appeared next to him, pushing him out of the ideal line. 

“Not going to happen,” John murmured and hit the brakes a second too early before the next corner, letting Sherlock go past him only to take the corner in a slight curve where Sherlock had to fight gravity and slowed down. John drove past him with a manic giggle. 

“Oh you just wait,” Sherlock murmured and John was momentarily distracted by how sexy he made it sound. He bit his lip and pushed on, trying his best to keep Sherlock behind him for another lap, but he knew that Sherlock wasn’t pretending any longer. With a gorgeous move, he overtook him and then proceeded to keep John half a second behind him until John was reduced to swearing at him. 

There had to be a way to beat Sherlock at this. “Let’s do a proper race,” John suggested after they hit the chosen limit of thirty practice laps. “Twenty-two cars. Hockenheim. Rain.”

“Want to raise the stakes?” Sherlock asked, waggling an eyebrow at John. 

John exhaled slowly, fighting down the urge to climb on top of Sherlock and snog him. There would be time for kissing. Now was the time to prove that he still had some fight in him. 

“I win,” Sherlock’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, “and I get to do whatever I want to do to you tonight.”

John grinned. “There are limits, you know?”

“Within your limits, of course,” Sherlock nodded. “But I get to choose.”

“And if I win?”

“I’ll be all yours.”

John decided not to voice his thought that since he was the more experienced of the two of them, he’d be making the choices anyway, whether Sherlock was aware of it or not, but the thought of edging Sherlock until he begged for release was incredibly appealing just then. 

John cracked his knuckles and nodded. “Alright.”

Sherlock grinned. “The game is on!”


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the lack of plot, but I kinda need to have these two sort themselves out. :-) Thanks for reading!

The fight started with the qualifying. Sherlock unsurprisingly managed to get pole, but John made second. Sherlock didn’t look at John, but he could see him trying not to smile too widely. 

John inhaled deeply and then held his breath as the red lights appeared one after another on top of the screen. He could feel his heart beating against his ribs when the lights went out and Sherlock shot forward next to him. John pushed lightly to the left, coming close to Sherlock’s right hind tyre and keeping him to the left. He managed to take the Nordkurve at a better angle than Sherlock and found himself in the lead for a second. Sherlock sniffed and attempted to get past John, but before he could accelerate, John put himself right at his nose and led him through the Ecclestone Kurve. 

It began to rain harder and John felt his grip slip a few times. He still led in the Hairpin, but a moment later, Sherlock had put himself next to John. John knew that if he could, Sherlock would probably have his driver flip him off at that point – a thought that made him giggle. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, stealing a glance at John. 

“Nothing,” John answered, flashing him a grin. A crunchy noise came from the screen, which made them both stare back at it. They had pushed each other off the track while all the other cars rushed past them. “Oh fuck, no!” John tried to get back on the tarmac. It took him half an eternity, while Sherlock tried to push his car out of the gravel by making elaborate movements with the controller in his hands. That had John laughing again. 

They made it back onto the track, but it was obvious that they’d both have to get new tyres and that the race was lost to them. “I guess I’ll have to blow Kimi,” John said drily, pointing at the list which showed the order of the drivers. Sherlock snorted, dropped his controller on the carpet and let himself fall back. He yawned heartily.

“To be honest, I think I wouldn’t have the energy to really enjoy my win.”

“So you did this on purpose before we’d even finished a single lap?” John watched him fondly for a moment before he ended the game and switched off the television set. In a way, he was glad that they had stopped now. It would have been silly to play for an hour only to be completely useless in the morning. And he was fairly sure that this wouldn’t be their last game. He stood over Sherlock and held out a hand. “I could be upset with you for not actually doing your best or I could call you out on fibbing.”

“You, too,” Sherlock grinned. “Although I can see that you have been hopeful.” Instead of taking John’s hand, he tried to reach for John’s flies. John stepped back and grinned. “I need to get off before I can sleep. Whether you are involved in any physical way is up to you.”

Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Am I involved in a non-physical way?”

John shrugged, biting down a grin, and left the living room to brush his teeth. He took the few seconds he knew it would take Sherlock to get up and join him in the bathroom to just stand at the sink for a moment, letting water run over his toothbrush and hands, letting the exhaustion settle in after yet another adrenaline rush. He felt strange, as if he had missed an opportunity today but had no idea what more he could have done.

Sherlock stuck his head in through the door and John looked at him through the mirror. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock finally said and stepped into the room. “I truly am.”

John turned off the tap and started brushing his teeth, still watching Sherlock, who remained motionless for a while. When John leaned over the sink to wash his mouth and face, Sherlock stepped behind him, handing John a towel before wrapping his arms around him. He nuzzled his neck and yawned. 

“If you would like to go ahead and, umm, take matters into your own hands I would not be unwilling to participate in a second hand manner.”

John stared at Sherlock through the mirror for a moment before giggling helplessly. The laughter helped him to drag himself out of the melancholy that had been closing in on him. 

“Right,” he said after he had calmed down and squeezed what he could reach of Sherlock’s arse. “You really don’t want to help?”

“Oh, I think I am,” he breathed against John’s skin and John bit back a moan. He opened his jeans and pushed them and his underwear down as far as he could without leaning forward. Sherlock’s body heat made John feel safe and on edge at the same time. There were also decidedly too many layers of clothes between them. 

Sherlock’s lips pressed against the skin of his neck while his eyes were fixed on his reflection. The mirror was not big enough to allow either of them to see below John’s chest, but it seemed that Sherlock was more intent on watching John’s face than any other body part. 

John closed his eyes when he squeezed himself, enjoying finally being able to do something about the heat in his lap. Despite it all, he had been aroused since Sherlock had plugged in the console and it felt great to push himself from nervous anticipation into the red hot need he began to feel burning in his body. 

He exhaled shakily and opened his eyes again, staring back at Sherlock whose ears and cheeks were flushed and whose eyes looked very bright in the neon light of the bathroom. Sherlock smiled and drew his thumb along John’s neck. John turned his head to find the mark Sherlock’s mouth had left on him earlier. 

He started stroking himself while he watched Sherlock close in on his neck only to lean forward and attach his lips to the same spot.

John’s knees buckled when he started to suck. Their eyes were still locked and John knew that it wouldn’t take him long to come; only now he wanted to drag this out. He wanted to bask in the moment of arousal and warmth and the light tickle of Sherlock’s nose and stubble against his skin. When Sherlock added teeth to the sucking, John had to hold himself up on the sink. He desperately wanted lube, but he knew that he couldn’t stop now. He was too far gone already. 

It was the small desperate noise that Sherlock made when John shuddered that pushed him over the edge. 

He unceremoniously came into the sink, trying hard to keep his eyes open. Sherlock pulled his lips away and lapped at his bruised skin before resting his chin on John’s shoulder. 

“Fuck,” John murmured, carefully stroking himself through a few aftershocks before he turned on the tap and washed up. Once again, Sherlock handed him a towel. “That was nice,” he said quietly. 

“I can’t believe I just wanked into your sink,” John said with a grin and carefully touched the love bite. There would be absolutely no mistaking it for what it was and there was no way of hiding it from the world. John found that he did not mind at all, at least in his current post-orgasmic state. He only thought that he’d need to reciprocate.

“Thanks for letting me watch.”

John grinned and kissed him on the lips. “You have a bit of an oral fixation, haven’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged, clearly unwilling to go into an analysis of his preferences and reached for his toothbrush. John let him brush his teeth in peace and went to change into his pyjamas. Wearing clothes he had worn at night for years while sitting on Sherlock’s bed felt strangely exciting. A comfort in a new environment. He knew that Sherlock would probably make fun of Senna’s face on his t-shirt, but he loved that shirt and would wear it until it fell apart.

Sherlock’s eyes settled on his chest when he came into the bedroom, but he didn’t comment on the shirt. Instead, he rubbed his face with both hands and yawned again. “We didn’t eat dinner,” he said, quietly. “You didn’t eat anything for tea either. At least I had some dessert. You must be starving.”

John shrugged. His stomach had been in knots because he had been worried and then he had been tired and eventually both aroused and happy. Somewhere along the lines he was sure that he was very hungry indeed, but he couldn’t imagine eating now. On top of it all, he had forgotten to take his pain killers. “I’m fine. We’ll just have a big breakfast.”

“You can always eat somwthing if you’re hungry,” Sherlock offered, pointing at his door. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” John smiled. “I’ll use the loo and then I want you to be in bed so I can watch you fall asleep.”

Sherlock looked unsure, but let John pass him without comment. He was in bed, setting his alarm when John returned from the bathroom, switching off the light. He climbed into bed, leaving a respectful distance between himself and Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock noticed. “John,” he put his phone on the night stand and settled down, his face a few inches from John’s. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

“Hmm?” John wanted to be closer to him, but it was Sherlock’s choice to make. 

“If he … felt about me the way you suggested he did.”

John watched him, silently. He didn’t know what to answer, but the relief he felt at Sherlock’s words made his heart ache. 

“I don’t know if I want him to.”

“What do you mean?” John’s voice sounded off and Sherlock cocked his head as if to hear better. 

“I don’t want him to have liked me, because it would mean that everything is so much more complicated.”

“Sherlock, I think it’s complicated, no matter what. And even if he regrets having done this to you then I can’t say I would feel sorry for him.”

“But you’d be right. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything. All of what you said is true and Mycroft probably … he would have discouraged him in any way he could.”

“He broke your heart,” John said, unhelpfully.

“And maybe I broke his, too?” Sherlock mused, a faraway look in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You wouldn’t have if you had had a choice.”

“But I did. I could have just shut up and watched him be great and get his place and I could have just been slow enough to make sure I wouldn’t get in. It would have been so much easier to just let him go.”

“If it helps.”

“What?”

“Telling yourself that. That you would have been able to let him go without telling him?”

“I would have let _you_ go.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion. “I wouldn’t have made the same mistake twice.”

John exhaled shakily and lifted the sheet just enough to make the invitation obvious. Sherlock moved closer and John wrapped his arms around him. “It’s not about us.” He blinked tears away.

“I do sometimes wonder how it would have been with him. If he had reacted differently.” He sighed and kissed John’s shoulder. “I don’t think I could have endured a relationship with him.”

That was a new thought. John gently pushed a curl out of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“I didn’t know what I wanted. I was incredibly inept at having any kind of relationship and I don’t think I would have been able to be with Victor. He would have grown tired or annoyed or overwhelmed and he would have left.” He looked at John in the dark, his eyes just visible from the light that shone into his room from the street lamp under the window. “So even if he reciprocated the feeling, I don’t think it would have worked out. At all. It would have been disastrous.”

“But it would have spared you the hatred. The betrayal. The pain.” John kissed his lips in between words and Sherlock closed his eyes. 

John had listened to Sherlock’s arguments and they made sense, at least in parts. He was sure that the physical aspect could have carried them a long way and if Victor had truly been Sherlock’s friend, he would have been willing to be patient with him in any case. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said at length, “but he is so different from you.”

“How do you mean?”

“You are just you. You know who you are and you are confident, and yes, despite the shortcomings that are the consequences of your accident. You are honest and brilliant and you talk to everyone easily and they like you. And you kissed me even though my brother kidnapped and tortured you.” 

John chuckled. “You’re exaggerating. And don’t forget that it’s partly due to your brother that I did.”

“You fight for me. Not against me.”

Sherlock’s words physically pained John. He found it hard to breathe and needed a few minutes to force his lips to stop trembling. “As I should,” he finally said. 

“I’ll have to thank Victor, it seems,” Sherlock said after another long moment of silence. “If I had never known him I wouldn’t have met you.”

John smiled and kissed him again. “See, I like to believe that we would have met no matter what.”

Sherlock’s breath tickled John’s lips. “I like that.”

Another few minutes of silence followed and John could feel Sherlock’s breathing slow down. His body relaxed in John’s arms and for a moment John thought that Sherlock had fallen asleep when he suddenly pushed closer and kissed him. “I’m sorry that it’s all so complicated,” he whispered, as if afraid that anyone else beside John could hear him. “I’m sorry that you feel guilty about doing what you think is right. I wish I was less …”

“Sherlock,” John hugged him close to his body, wrapping one leg around Sherlock’s legs for good measure. “I want you with every bit of baggage that belongs to you. I know it won’t always be easy but I am in bed with the most beautiful man I have ever met and he is, for some strange reason, attracted to me, so I have absolutely no reason to complain.”

Sherlock snorted and pressed his face against his collar bone. “I made you feel terrible. I’m sorry.”

“No, Sherlock. I am the one who needs to apologise.”

“But it’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Are we going to fight about this?”

John grinned. “No. You’d know if I was angry. I tend to stomp around and throw doors shut and shout. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

“No dreams,” Sherlock whispered against John’s throat. 

“Yeah, no dreams. Sleep well, Sherlock.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then curled into John’s embrace. 

John felt his stomach rumble and fully expected Sherlock to say something, but it appeared that he had finally fallen asleep. John moved a bit to make sure that Sherlock’s head on his arm wouldn’t cut off his blood circulation and that his shoulder wouldn’t overstretch and then closed his eyes and let sleep take him.


	40. Chapter Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have reached chapter forty ... how did that happen?! How did this thing turn into a novel?! I guess I have to thank Rox for feeding the plot bunny and then letting it go wild. And now she won't even read this until it's done, because she doesn't read WIPs XD Well, eventually, she'll get to this point! Hi Rox! For once, something is your fault and not Verity's ;)
> 
> Also, another HUGE thank you to those of you who have read, liked and commented! Without your comments I wouldn't have had the energy to keep writing! 
> 
> I guess, by the pace I'm going, there will be more than 50 chapters of this. This is just a short chapter, but I promised sexy times, so...

John woke up before the alarm and for a few moments he basked in the exciting feeling of sleeping in Sherlock’s bed with half of what he owned sitting in a bag on a chair at the far end of the room. Sherlock’s hair tickled his neck, but he wasn’t curled up anymore. Instead, he had kicked himself free of the sheets and now slept on his back, one leg dangling over the edge of the bed while one elbow rested against John’s hip.

John carefully moved away and sat up, simply watching Sherlock for a minute before his bladder dictated him to go to the bathroom. For the first time in two days he felt his shoulder burn when he lifted his arms to take off his shirt. He’d look into those exercises Aki had given him and he would start to work out, he promised himself, looking sternly at his own face in the mirror.

He took his time showering and shaving, knowing that Sherlock’s alarm wouldn’t go off for another thirty minutes and then he went to make breakfast with only a towel around his hips. He hummed a low tune to himself while he prepared toast, eggs and bacon and set them out on the kitchen table. Then he made tea and took one mug back to the bedroom, where Sherlock had turned onto his stomach and now covered the half of the bed where John had slept. 

John put the tea down on the night stand. “Good morning,” he said quietly, smiling when an undignified noise emerged from where Sherlock pressed his face into a pillow. John sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed one hand under Sherlock’s shirt, slowly stroking upwards. “Wake up, Sherlock,” he said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. Right now he couldn’t care less about the food that was getting cold outside in the kitchen. He did, however, very much care for the muscles that shifted under his hand and the small sigh that momentarily increased the pressure of his touch. 

“I made breakfast,” he offered, pressing down harder, feeling Sherlock tense. “Come on, get up.”

“I am up,” Sherlock mumbled as he dragged his face around to look at John with one tired eye as the other was still closed against the pillow.

John chuckled and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I’m not talking about morning wood,” he clarified and got up, leaving Sherlock’s shirt dragged up to his shoulder blades. He resisted the urge to slap Sherlock’s arse and left the room, hoping that Sherlock would join him rather than fall asleep again.

A minute after he had sat down, Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, holding his mug. John watched him move to the table and fall into a chair, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed with affection for the man. “Are you awake enough to eat?”

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes focusing on his face, immediately becoming clearer. “I don’t think I have a choice. And you shaved.”

“It had to happen eventually,” John grinned. “And you should shave, too. Otherwise they’ll think you’re trying to imitate Jenson.”

“And that would be a bad thing?” Sherlock smirked and sipped on his now lukewarm tea. 

John stretched his legs and trapped Sherlock’s calf between his ankles. “It’s not enough to count as a beard and they won’t want you scruffy.”

“But you do,” Sherlock put down his tea. “You’re sad to see it go,” he dragged his fingernails along his chin. 

John wasn’t sure how to react. He loved kissing Sherlock now that he had enough scruff to not just scratch, but to also softly tickle. How Sherlock knew that was a mystery to him. “Possibly,” he admitted and Sherlock flashed him a grin. 

“Eat,” John said, buttering a toast. “I can’t be the only one who’s starving.”

Sherlock leaned back, pulling his foot out of John’s grasp. Then, with a fluid motion, he slid off the chair and under the table.

“Sherlock, what are you d … oh,” John swallowed down the rest of the sentence when Sherlock pushed his legs apart. He rubbed his cheek against John’s inner thigh and John grunted, surprised by how indecently good it felt. 

Sherlock nibbled at his skin for a few moments before he tugged the towel free from around John for better access. Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and pulled and John slid down lower in his chair, his hands holding on to his knife and fork as if to preserve some kind of normalcy.

When Sherlock’s lips wrapped around his slowly stiffening cock, John dropped the cutlery on the table and slipped his hands into Sherlock’s hair. “Oh, god, yes,” he whispered and Sherlock sucked harder, taking him in all the way and pressing his lips closed around his base. As he grew harder, Sherlock had to pull back, unable to fit him into his mouth without gagging. 

Sherlock pressed his thighs farther apart and started fondling his testicles, rubbed his perineum and finally pushed, if only gently, against his anus. John felt himself tense and Sherlock immediately withdrew his fingers. He let go of his cock, too, and apologised.

“No, I’m sorry,” John tried to clarify. “It’s just that … I’d want you so much it would drive me mad.”

“Oh,” Sherlock sounded less taken aback than John had expected. “Interesting.”

John snorted a laugh. “Oh, is that so?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he wrapped one hand around John again and started swirling his tongue around his glans before sucking him back in as far as he could go. 

John felt his hips move on their own accord and his grabbed the sides of the chair to have something other than Sherlock’s hair to hold on to. 

Sherlock shifted his position slightly and it took John a moment to realise that the rhythm he took on was related to the rhythm with which he stroked himself. “No, Sherlock, I want you. Don’t!” John wasn’t sure that Sherlock understood what he wanted, but he found it impossible for formulate a more coherent sentence. “Fuck,” he jerked up when Sherlock twirled his tongue around him again. Then he pulled back and took him firmly in hand, small puffs of air against his wet skin making John squirm. 

John sat there in anticipation, too far gone to be willing to risk a change in plans on Sherlock’s side and too frustrated to relax. Then, very slowly and carefully, he felt Sherlock pull down his foreskin and press the tip of his tongue against his frenulum. 

John tried to hold his breath, but that only resulted in a series of uncontrolled gasps when Sherlock started flicking his tongue up and down. “Fuck,” he moaned again, unable to control his jerking hips. 

The hand with which Sherlock had been stroking himself came up to press John down into his seat. John was close, salty-bitter precum pushing its way out of him and onto Sherlock’s tongue.

John started to moan in time with Sherlock’s movement and he tried to hold on for a moment longer, unwilling to let this sensation pass so soon. 

The sudden noise of Sherlock’s phone ringing made them both jump and Sherlock hit his head on the table. “Oww,” he complained and then grunted when he pulled away and emerged from under the table. His lips were red and moist with his own saliva, and John was still so close he almost came just from looking at him. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock had had him right at the edge, just seconds before he would have come, hand or no hand involved. 

“Please don’t answer the phone,” John pleaded, his voice rough. “Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock wiped his hands on his t-shirt and picked up his phone. He cleared his throat before he answered. “Mycroft.”

John closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had called in exactly the worst moment he could imagine because he somehow knew that John was about to come all over Sherlock’s pretty face. He moaned just thinking about it, and was met with a dark stare from Sherlock when he opened his eyes again.

“Possibly." Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "None of your business. Yes, of course. If we must. Yes. We. I will let you know. Yes. Bloody hell, just … yes, we are busy. If you must know.” He sighed and John wondered how much Mycroft really knew about what they had been doing. He could probably tell from Sherlock’s voice what he had been up to. John closed his eyes again, biting his lip hard to override the desperate need to touch himself. 

“I must go. We’ll be late otherwise.” Sherlock ended the call and put the phone down on the table. He rubbed the back of his head where he had hit it on the table. “Sorry, I had to take this. Immediate reaction is the only way to not make it difficult with him.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever disliked a person quite like I dislike him.”

“You’re aroused and frustrated. These things shouldn’t dictate how you feel about anyone.”

John growled and pushed his chair back, the wood scraping along the kitchen floor. “I need you.” It was all he said, but he knew that it hadn’t been necessary. 

Sherlock cocked his head to the right, and kept looking at John with an expression that gave John goose-flesh.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

As Sherlock stood there, John understood that the table had helped. Sherlock had reacted on a whim, spontaneously doing what he thought might be a good idea, or at least something that he wanted to try. Now his head hurt from the collision with the table and John had changed the game by moving away from it, exposing himself. 

He exhaled shakily and placed both hands on the edge of the seat to his sides, closing his eyes. He had absolutely no idea what Sherlock would do now, but he dearly hoped that the plea was obvious. 

Long, cold seconds passed by, making John shiver. He forced himself to breathe evenly and eventually he could feel tension make room for a more comfortable form of arousal. He stopped being desperate for Sherlock’s touch and returned to a state in which he hoped to be touched soon, but simultaneously wanting to draw things out, to feel the lack of touch tighten his skin and make him oversensitive without him losing control.

He felt his cock get a bit softer and he relaxed in the chair. A heartbeat later he heard the painful sound of Sherlock’s knees colliding with the floor. He felt his warmth before he touched him and his whole body was tugged forward by the sensation. Goosebumps chased over his chest and legs and he jumped when Sherlock leaned in to suck a nipple into his mouth. The feeling of his soft lips against his sensitive skin made John cry out, and when Sherlock bit down, John jerked hard, almost kicking Sherlock out of reflex. 

He kept his eyes closed, burning with the sensation of only Sherlock’s mouth and the hint of his body only inches away from his, so close, but yet unreachable. He moaned loudly, growing back into full hardness, and his head fell back when Sherlock moved up, kissing and licking along his collar bone and then under his chin and ear. One strong hand settled on his thigh and John pushed his hips up, yearning for contact, making a needy noise that Sherlock answered in kind. 

When he touched him again, John’s eyes flew open. Sherlock watched his face closely. His breath tickled John’s lips when he exhaled and John drove forward and kissed him sloppily and without much coordination. Sherlock chuckled and kissed him back, moving his hand faster. John’s hands grasped the sides of the chair again and soon he couldn’t continue the kiss and simply moaned against Sherlock’s opened lips.

He tried to keep his eyes open, but found it impossible when Sherlock leaned down to suck the head of his cock between his lips. For a moment, John felt his whole body go stiff and then he doubled over, coming hard into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock choked and pulled away, and John almost slid off the chair, splashing across his own stomach and chest and Sherlock’s hands. 

John squirmed and laughed breathlessly when he opened his eyes again to find Sherlock drawing lines across his glistening stomach. “I just showered,” he said eventually.

Instead of an answer, Sherlock leaned forward and licked a broad stripe across his chest, smacking his lips. “I’m getting used to your taste,” Sherlock said finally and used John’s thigh to push himself up. His own neglected erection pressed against his pyjama trousers and John wanted to reach for him, but Sherlock shook his head. “We’d be late,” he simply said and left the kitchen. A few seconds later, John heard the water of the shower run. He had only just decided to trust his legs again and to get up when Sherlock returned, wet and disappointingly soft, towelling at his hair without paying much attention to the rest of his body.

Then he grabbed a few bites from his plate and threw his wet towel at John. “Clean up and get dressed. We have to go.”

John sat up straight and wiped his stomach and thighs clean, squirming when he touched his cock. He’d be sensitive for a while and Sherlock definitely needed to experience for himself what John had just felt. 

A few minutes later in the car John realised that Sherlock had not shaved, and that he had neglected to check out the physio-exercises. He carefully pushed his shoulder back, wincing when he felt the stretch more prominently than he had hoped he would. He wondered whether it had been the position he had been sleeping in, or whether he was finally relaxed enough to feel normal again, inviting the pain back. 

“Are you alright, John?”

John cocked his head to stretch against the pain and then glanced at Sherlock. “I’m alright.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped himself and looked away. 

“I was looking forward to returning the favour,” John finally admitted, and he had to smile at the way Sherlock’s hands flattened against his thighs. He cleared his throat but still said nothing.

“And my shoulder is acting up. I need you to remind me to do the exercises that Aki gave me.”

Sherlock looked at him, pressing his lips together. He dipped his chin in answer.

“And I’m wondering why you did it under the table.”

Sherlock smirked and relaxed his hands. “It was an experiment.”

“Oh, was it now? And what did you find out?”

“I’m not telling you while you’re driving down a motorway at 70 mph.”

“Do you think I’d let you distract me?”

“I wouldn’t dare try.”

“You already do.”

“At least I am keeping my shirt on,” Sherlock argued, the tone of his voice making it clear that he knew he was winning the argument before it had even started. 

John snorted. “You’re the one who got severely turned on by that.”

“Not more than you did in the box.”

 _Touché_ , John thought. “You’d be really good at cheating,” John said, remembering his offer to let Jenson win.

“I know the rules and therefore I know how to break them. It’s like chess, John. You have to know every possible step your opponent could take to calculate all possible solutions to the problem.”

“And there I am, tipping over the board,” John grinned widely now, poking Sherlock’s side. 

“You’re very sure of your prowess.”

“That is not the term I would use,” John argued, feeling like he would never stop smiling again. 

“Oh, what term would you use?”

“Just, distracting. I’m very good at distracting you.”

“Doesn’t mean the game has ended,” Sherlock grinned at him deviously. 

John decided not to call him out on his complete blank on the events after their first kiss. The moment was too important and intimate to be part of their banter. 

“You almost lost a race, though.”

“That was a much larger issue.”

John made a motion with his hand that was supposed to represent him tipping over the chessboard, but Sherlock caught his hand mid air before he could do anything else. He pulled it up to his lips and kissed his palm before turning it over and pressing another kiss to his knuckles.

“I would have made second. Not lost.” He said against John’s hand and released him again. “Big difference.”

John smiled at him and placed his hand against his own face and lips, basking in the silly notion of transferring the kiss to his cheek. “Are you now trying to charm me to distraction?”

“I don’t know what charm is,” Sherlock lied, quite obviously and consciously, and John couldn't help but laugh. 

“Tell me later?”

“Tell you what later?”

“About your experiment?”

“Hmm, maybe. I might need some further data.”

John sighed and tried to focus on the road. He wondered how it would be to drive for endless hours with Sherlock. How would it be to arrive in an old house with dusty furniture and possible traces of Sherlock’s childhood? 

“Do you want me to drive?” Sherlock asked, reaching out to touch John’s shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to take a painkiller and I’ll be perfectly alright.”

Sherlock nodded. “Let me know if you want me to.”

John looked at him from the corner of his eyes and wondered how Sherlock could possibly go from how he was now, with his heart and mind open for John to poke and prod, to his public persona. He knew that Jenson posed a problem to Sherlock’s strict separation between these sphered, and Lestrade didn’t seem to care much, overriding all of Sherlock’s warning signs with ease, but he would be surrounded by a team of strangers to take his picture. And he would need to shave.

In Woking, Lestrade was waiting for them in their office. Sherlock had not yet returned the contract, and Lestrade had come to pick it up. “You’re not late,” he said with a smile that gave away that he had most definitely been talking to Mycroft and that Mycroft had freely shared what he knew they were doing. John wondered briefly why it didn’t bother him that his boss knew so much about his private life, and Sherlock’s, for that matter, but decided not to think too much about it as to not let the situation become awkward. 

“I’ve had a look at your output and I think we should try to rebuild it for Jenson.”

“The motor?”

Lestrade nodded. “Let him keep his gear box, but give him Sherlock’s motor and he could be doing alright.”

“Anderson?”

“Will build it for him if you give him the plan.”

“But I don’t have to, do I? Is that why you’re here?”

“He’s currently building one from scratch.”

“His idea?”

“Jenson’s.”

“I’ll do it. He can have the motor.” John nodded and switched on his computer. Sherlock watched them, his face expressionless. 

“It’ll have your name on it.”

John smiled. “No thanks. If Anderson builds it, it’s his. And if Jenson crashes, at least that would be a weight off my mind.”

“Wow, watch the sarcasm,” Lestrade smirked. “There’s something else, though.”

“Bad or good?”

“Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.” 

“Shoot.”

“Mycroft Holmes wants to sponsor you.”

Both John and Sherlock stared at Lestrade with open mouths. “No!” They spoke simultaneously and Lestrade nodded. “I told him you’d decline, but he said to ask.”

“Absolutely not,” John reaffirmed and Sherlock looked pleased.

“Right, I’ll let him know. Now, Sherlock, they’ll be waiting for you downstairs. Bring your overall.”

“Good bye,” Sherlock said and opened the door for him.

Lestrade just grinned at him and gave a little wave when he left them. 

“What the hell?” John asked Sherlock, who closed the door quietly. “Does your brother think he can control me that easily?”

“I wonder if he offered it knowing that you’d decline so he can go and be a pompous ass about it if you’re ever in need of money.”

“Well, I’d certainly not turn to him for help,” John shook his head. “The audacity …”

“It’s his logic. He’s usually right about these things, too.”

“I don’t think I want to know what his real intentions are.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’ll be downstairs.

“Wait, I thought you wanted me to be down there.”

“It’ll take some preparations. I’ll give you a call when they start shooting.”

John nodded and sat down at his desk. “I’ll not distract you.”

Sherlock was almost out of the door, but turned around and smiled at John. “You always do, whether you’re with me or not.”

“Bad thing?”

Sherlock’s smile turned into another challenging grin. “Depends.” He winked at John and left the room. 

For the next five minutes, John tried to fight down the butterflies in his stomach. He knew he was wasting time sitting there, grinning at his computer screen, but he simply couldn’t help it. Then he slowly reviewed the changes he had made to Sherlock’s car before sending off the order and asking Mike to join them in the garage later on. 

Sherlock’s text came just when John opened a web browser to look for Sherlock’s estate in Scotland. _Foyer, far right._

He made his way downstairs, wondering why he felt nervous all of the sudden. Maybe it had been the wink – a hint of Sherlock’s utter self confidence, which he hadn’t really displayed much over the past few days. He had been mostly pliant, flirty, but almost insecure, trying to figure out how to behave with John around. The wink had reminded John strongly of the cockiness he had shown him at their first meeting and it made his heart race. 

A more tangible reason for his nervousness became obvious when he found Sherlock. They had made him shave, just as he had thought, but they had also wet his hair and pushed it partly back. He wore his overall with the top hanging down from his hips and his too tight fire proofs did little to hide the lines of his chest and stomach in the bright light they were currently installing. 

John had stopped in his tracks when he had seen him, and he immediately thought of turning around and walking away again. Instead, he walked closer until Sherlock noticed him. His expression betrayed neither thoughts nor emotions and John tried very hard to not let his own feelings show. A small nod took the edge off slightly, as it reminded John that Sherlock wanted him there for moral support and not for him to ogle his body. Well, probably a little bit of both, he thought and found a seat a little out of the way. 

The photographer recognised John and came over to chat with him. John remembered that he’d done the season starter photo shoot in early spring and that Jenson had gotten him to take silly photos of him outside afterwards. John wondered if he could talk him around to getting some more out of this shoot than his company would pay him for. 

Before he could ask, the shoot began and Sherlock was told to stand up straight with his shoulders back, and a few minutes later he was asked to sit down on the car behind him and look relaxed, which he couldn’t quite pull off. He was told to hold his helmet this way and that way and to put it on with and without the balaclava. The inevitable problem came when the photographer asked him to smile. 

Initially, Sherlock refused, claiming that it had nothing to do with sports or his own person. 

“They want to see the real you. The man, not the mask.” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and John knew that he was very close to saying something that would end the photo shoot right there and then. He coughed, loudly, and apologised quickly to the worried looks he received. But he got Sherlock’s attention. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and cradled his helmet in his arms, still looking at John. John knew there were two ways to make him smile and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t like to see his own private emotions portrayed on a photograph and John was sure that he did not want Sherlock to feel upset about finding a photo online which betrayed his feelings again.

So instead of smiling at him, which John knew would be a fool proof way of getting Sherlock to smile back, he pulled a silly face. Sherlock’s initial reaction was to frown, but John could see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

John quickly stuck out his tongue and gave Sherlock the two-finger salute. That had Sherlock grinning. The photographer started shooting and Sherlock gave him a look that John was sure was supposed to express his annoyance, but it ended up looking like he was about to start laughing, which in turn made John giggle. 

Sherlock looked back at John, his cheeks gaining colour, and John tried his hardest not to let him see just how gorgeous he found him like this. Yet, somewhere in their unspoken communication Sherlock must have picked up on John’s state of mind and he started smiling, his gaze returning back to the camera. It was a slightly arrogant, self assured but genuine smile that made John weak in the knees and forced him to look away. 

When he found the courage to look again, Sherlock had taken off his fireproof. For a few seconds John just stared before it dawned on him that they were simply putting him into a sponsor’s t-shirt. He knew that his face must have betrayed his thoughts when the photographer said something to Sherlock which made him laugh out loud and look at John. Then Sherlock shrugged and pulled the t-shirt on, giving John and everyone else in his closer proximity a lovely view of his toned stomach. 

“Fucking hell,” John murmured and rubbed his face. Sherlock had been serious when he had announced that the game wasn’t over yet - only John had no idea how to play. So instead of blatantly staring at Sherlock, whose poses became more self-confident and whose face reflected a specific cocky arrogance that John felt would drive him mad if he ever looked at him with that expression, he got up and walked away. He had to force himself to not look back as he walked towards the nearest bathroom. 

Only when he saw himself in the mirror, he remembered that colourful love bite Sherlock had sucked into his skin, visible to the world and quite obviously the topic of the amused chat between Sherlock and the photographer. John winced. He felt comfortably uncomfortable, which was a strange emotion to handle when all he wanted was to undress Sherlock right there and then in front of everyone while feeling incredibly embarrassed about the whole situation. He also needed to figure out how to beat Sherlock at his own game. 

He let cold water run over his wrists and he splashed his face and dragged his wet hands through his hair. Sherlock had gotten him off twice since last night, and while John had understood that Sherlock had been too tired last night, this morning’s rushed exit had left him itching to touch Sherlock. He splashed his face again and shook his head at himself. “You’re an idiot, John Watson,” he chided himself. 

Sherlock didn't have any sexual experience apart from the occasional wank and the last couple of days, he reminded himself. Sherlock didn’t know that John wanted to touch him all the time. Or, at least if he knew, he wouldn’t know how much John suffered by not being allowed to bring him off. With an exasperated sigh, John dried his hands and face and made his way outside again. Sherlock was all put together and as earnest as he had been initially, but he looked slightly more at ease now, and when he saw John, he grinned at him. 

“Bastard,” John mouthed and returned to his seat to watch the rest of the show.


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

John pretended to be busy with his phone while the shoot continued. When he looked up, Sherlock was on his way over to him. “Come be in a picture with me!”

John shook his head, wondering briefly what measures Sherlock would take to convince him to do it anyway. 

“Why not?”

“You talked about me?”

“About your neck, yes.” Sherlock looked rather smug.

“You didn’t tell him that it was you,” John guessed.

“Obviously not.”

“So, who did you blame?”

“Your secret girlfriend.”

“My what?”

“Gorgeous, long legs, dark hair, intelligent and very good in bed.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John laughed and pretended to throw a punch at him. Sherlock side-stepped his fist easily. 

“Come on,” he turned around and walked back to the set and John grudgingly followed him. “I will kill you,” he murmured when Sherlock pushed him down to sit on the car, positioning himself behind him. 

“Smile!” came the order from the photographer and John put on his official smile. It came effortless and he was glad for it. Since he couldn’t see Sherlock, he had no idea how he would look, but he hoped that he’d have it in him to at least try to look content. 

A moment later, Sherlock moved to stand next to John. “Stand up,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Why?”

“You’ll look taller.”

John snorted. “Why, thanks.”

It was only when Sherlock’s left hand came to rest on his arse that he understood the true intention of Sherlock’s to have him stand up. He tried his hardest not to giggle or swat his hand away. After a few takes, Sherlock moved away again as if nothing had happened and John decided that he would find a way to play, too. Not on this day, when he still had work ahead of him, but Sherlock would be in for a surprise once they left for their little holiday. 

He decided to treat all of this as work, which helped him a bit to focus. Sherlock was clearly testing the waters, but he had asked John to pretend that things hadn’t changed, and that was exactly what John would do. “If we’re done here, I think we should head over to the garage to get your car ready.” 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, apparently trying to read between the lines. John looked him square in the eyes, ignoring the urge to touch the damp curls which stuck out from behind Sherlock’s ears. For a second he allowed himself to enjoy the thought that this gorgeous human being was his to love, but then he pulled out his phone to distract himself and check back with Mike.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he said quietly and, after a quick good bye and joke about his hickey, he walked away. Mike was already waiting for him in the garage, overseeing the delivery of the parts John had ordered. 

“How are you?” Mike asked, after a short hug and a quick searching glance at John’s face. 

“I’m alright. There’s just a lot going on.”

“Any attacks?”

“Not since last week, no.”

“Have you been driving?”

John grinned. “Yes, I even took a few laps in the simulator.”

Mike smiled at him. “I’m glad to have been wrong about him.”

John nodded, his grin turning into a wistful expression. “Yeah, me, too.”

Mike squeezed his arm and led him over to the work space. John took his shoes off and reached for his gloves. “I’ll wait until he’s here. He wants to watch.”

“How did he do that, keeping the car almost intact during that race?” Mike mused.

“I don’t know. He’s a genius.”

A polite cough from behind them revealed that Sherlock had entered the room, walking barefoot and silent on the carpeted floor. His neck and cheeks had taken on a lovely shade of pink and John had to remind himself again that he wouldn't let anything distract him.

“You’re here, good. Let’s start.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up the print-outs of John’s plans. Mike left them with the offer to be on standby in case they needed anything else, but Sherlock simply ignored him. John nodded and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ before he joined Sherlock. 

It was surprisingly easy to fall back into the productive state they had been in the week before. Sherlock talked him through the steps while John worked on the motor. The gear box was a bit harder, since it had suffered slightly more than the motor. John had to exchange a few parts, but he stuck strictly to the original plan. Sherlock helped him to connect the tank to the engine and slowly the car was put back together. 

When Sherlock went to get them some water, John quickly scratched his name on the surface of the exhaust pipe where nobody would see it. Then he sat down in a chair, looking at a slightly altered Molly. He felt calm and accepted the bottle which Sherlock handed him gratefully, smiling up at him to see Sherlock look equally calm. 

He realised only how thirsty he had been when he started drinking. Sherlock smirked when John started on the second bottle only a minute after he had emptied the first one. “Oh, shut up,” he grinned once he felt that he would burst. “I didn’t know I’d become just as bad as you.”

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his own water. “We should eat as well.”

“Let’s finish the car first.”

“John.”

“What?”

“We should eat.”

John looked at the car and back at Sherlock. He was right, of course, but John felt uncomfortable leaving the car open, like a wound that wasn’t sewn closed yet after surgery. 

“Come on.” Sherlock took off his gloves and held out his hand for John’s. He pulled them off and pressed them into Sherlock’s palm and for a moment Sherlock’s hand closed around his own, squeezing gently. John knew that whatever they did in the garage would be caught on camera, so he straightened his shoulders and pulled his hand back. 

“Alright, let’s go and find something to eat.”

John felt slightly uncomfortable in the cafeteria and he tried not to look around too much. He didn’t know how he would react if he saw Sally now. Sherlock must have read his thoughts, because he stood a little bit closer and touched his back lightly. John would have loved to lean back into his touch to show him how much he enjoyed the sensation, but instead he nodded quickly and got into line to shovel food onto his plate. 

He got chicken and pasta salad while Sherlock only had chicken and two glasses of mousse au chocolat. “I have created a monster,” John giggled when Sherlock sat down opposite of him and started with his dessert.

“Two things I never knew I wanted in my life. Sex and mousse au chocolat,” Sherlock murmured under his breath and John almost choked on his chicken. 

They ate in silence and John tried to look at his own food and not at Sherlock’s mouth. Something told him that if John watched him eat, Sherlock would make it part of the game and the last thing he needed was to get turned on in the cafeteria. 

Josh and a few other mechanics waved hello when they got their lunch, but they didn’t approach their table and John was glad about it. They probably suspected something, and he didn’t feel like explaining. Seeing his colleagues made John re-evaluate his behaviour towards Sherlock in public. He hadn’t been careful at all, kissing him in the hallway after talking to Sally and holding hands. The mechanics would probably not care much, but John was aware that if the news got out, particularly with Sherlock being shoved in the public eye, things could get messy very quickly. 

He tucked his legs under his seat. A moment ago his ankles had rested comfortably against Sherlock’s, but even if they had become fast friends within the span of the last week, they wouldn’t be that comfortable with each other if they were just that. 

“John,” Sherlock asked quietly, frowning in question of John’s undoubtedly troubled expression. “Are you alright?”

John looked at him for a long time before he nodded. “Talk about it later,” he answered and finished his meal. Sherlock’s hand brushed his for a second when he reached for the salt, which he then didn’t use and the game stopped being a game for a moment. The cold that he felt against his knuckles after Sherlock had pulled his hand back made John’s heart ache. He wanted to be able to touch him and not be afraid that every little touch or look would betray his feelings. For the first time in many years, John felt that he had to hide who he was; not for his own sake, but for Sherlock’s. 

He sighed and got up. “I need some air,” he said quietly and put his tray away. He felt terrible leaving Sherlock alone at the table, but the urge to show some sort of affection had become overwhelming. 

Stopping by the bathroom, John decided to take a short, brisk walk in the small park which connected the main building with the test track. He leaned against a birch tree and looked up into its crown. It seemed far away, swaying gently in the wind. For a moment the clouds made it seem as if the world tilted and John closed his eyes and rubbed his face. With a long exhale he eventually pushed himself away from the tree and returned to the garage, where Sherlock sat by the car and waited for him. 

He was reading something on his phone when John stepped close and pulled on his gloves again. “Sorry, I just …”

“Don’t apologise.”

John looked at Sherlock, realising that the walk might have cleared his head a little, but that the urge to pull Sherlock into his arms had not disappeared. There were a few seconds of motionless silence before Sherlock rose to his feet and picked up his own gloves again. “Let’s finish her, shall we?”

They worked in silence. Sherlock double checked the motor and the rest of the machinery while John worked on the nose of the car. Only when he screwed the spoilers on and accidentally bumped his elbow against Sherlock’s arm, John felt that it was safe to talk to him without bursting out with a declaration of love. “Why Molly?”

Sherlock gently petted the car and pulled off his gloves. “My parents wanted us to learn several languages, so they made us read books in French, Spanish and German. One of these German books features a boy, who’s an outsider, but he has one friend. They have to leave their home due to overpopulation, so they take a locomotive and begin travelling the world.” 

John smiled, imagining Sherlock reading a book with his legs tugged underneath himself and his head full of curls and dreams. 

“Long story short, at some point, Jim, the boy, gets his own locomotive, Molly. She’s a baby-locomotive,” Sherlock grinned, undoubtledly realising how strange it sounded, talking about the story out loud. “She grows bigger, but is lost at some point. In the end they find her again when she’s turned into crystal by merfolk of some sort. They made her beautiful and unbreakable. That’s why.”

John blinked hard, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill over. His heart was so full of affection for Sherlock that he found it difficult to breathe. “Sherlock,” he finally said, but his voice broke on the name and Sherlock frowned, clearly confused by John’s reaction. 

“Bathroom,” was all John said before he turned around. The next restroom was down the hall and he walked fast, without checking whether Sherlock was following him. He only turned around when he was through the door. Sherlock pulled the door to the garage closed behind him and walked over to where John waited for him, the frown still tugging at his eyebrows. 

“What is it?” he asked when he had finally reached John and the door had fallen shut behind them. John checked that they were alone before he turned back to Sherlock, pushed him into a cubicle, locked the door and grabbed his face. With an annoyed noise, John pulled his hands back and tugged off the cotton gloves and stuck them into his pocket before grabbing Sherlock's face again. 

For a few seconds, they looked at each other, John’s eyes still bright with unspilled tears and Sherlock’s full of confusion. 

“What?” he asked again and John laughed, his tears finally spilling over and he kissed Sherlock, hard and desperate. He pulled him down so he wouldn’t have to stand on his toes, and after the initial shock Sherlock gladly followed his lead, embracing John with both arms. John pushed his right hand into Sherlock’s curls, making sure that he wouldn’t move away anytime soon, before he wrapped his left arm around Sherlock, pressing his palm between his shoulder blades, holding him close enough to make breathing difficult. It was the pressure of Sherlock’s arms and his body against his that helped John to get rid of the constricting feeling that had possessed him before. 

John gasped loudly for air, but pulled Sherlock back into the kiss immediately after, not giving him time to think or talk or do anything else that was not kissing him back.

It was only when Sherlock’s right hand started stroking up and down his back that John was able to loosen his grasp on him slightly. He let out a shuddering breath which Sherlock caught with his lips. “John.”

“Sorry,” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth. “I love you.”

Sherlock made a small surprised noise and John kissed him again. 

“I really needed this.”

With a shy smile Sherlock straightened, putting some distance between his mouth and John’s. “And we had to go to the bathroom to do that?”

John nodded and first wiped at his face, before gently wiping his own tears from Sherlock’s cheeks. “Security cameras. I couldn’t risk … I can’t risk losing you.”

“John, what are you talking about?”

John pulled him close again and Sherlock hugged him tightly, cradling him in his arms. John pressed his face against his neck and inhaled deeply. “I told Sally about you, and Lestrade knows and Jenson knows and Mike knows and we’ve kissed out there and we’ve … I have been stupid about this. I forgot to be careful because you are just so bloody gorgeous and I was about to burst because I couldn’t touch you. So even when I try to be careful I can barely keep my hands to myself.”

John could hear Sherlock’s steady heartbeat and he pressed his eyes closed, trying to concentrate on the rhythm. 

When Sherlock spoke, it was a low rumble in his chest. “So it wasn’t the story that made you react that way?”

John chuckled and pressed a kiss to his chin. “No, I love that story. It’s the best reason to name a car I have ever heard of. It also made me fall in love with you again. No, more, just a lot more. And I didn’t know that this was possible and I am slightly scared of what else you will tell me, because I barely know you and you already made me cry by sharing a childhood memory.”

Sherlock was quiet and John held on tighter. “And I’m sorry for confusing you.”

“I’m … umm … rather amazed.”

“Not sorry then,” John sniffed.

“I also … umm …” Sherlock cleared his throat and John pulled back slightly to be able to look at him. “I … er, that.”

“That?”

Sherlock looked away bashfully and John smiled widely. “Can we just … for a little while longer?” John leaned into Sherlock again, holding on tightly. Sherlock silently held him until John was ready to let go. 

John made sure that they were still alone when he unlocked the cubicle. He looked at himself in the mirror and decided that he needed to wash his face to cool down. His lips were slightly swollen and red, his cheeks were blotched from the tears and his hair showed clear traces of Sherlock’s touch. He asked Sherlock to go back to the garage and turned on the tap. Before he went, Sherlock hugged him from behind and gently nipped at his ear. “You’re a miracle,” he whispered and walked out without another word. 

The cold water helped and John wet his face and hair and scrubbed hard. They would only need to do a few final bits on the car before he would report to his boss and then they could leave and he could finally take Sherlock out to dinner and they could talk about Scotland and he would finally, finally be able to touch Sherlock. The white spark that flashed through his gut reminded John that he had been in a constant state of frustration since last night. It wasn’t enough to have Sherlock touch him, no matter of amazing it felt. He needed to touch Sherlock, and he needed to make him come, preferably while he shouted his name. He craved it with such an intensity that he thought of ordering Sherlock back into the bathroom to get down to business right away, but he reminded himself that they would be leaving earlier if they behaved and finished their work sooner rather than later. 

He dried his face and hair as well as he could with the provided paper towels and made his way back to Sherlock and Molly.


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

Sherlock seemed absent minded when John came back. He only seemed to realise that John stood right next to him when he gently touched his arm. Slightly startled, he cleared his throat and looked at John for a moment, but soon his eyes took on that faraway look that told him that Sherlock was somewhere else entirely. 

Silently, John finished his work and called Mike to let him know that the car would be ready for testing. It was only then that Sherlock’s head shot around and he looked at John somewhat bewildered. “Someone else is testing her?”

“Well, we’ll be on holiday, and they have to make sure that the cars are ready to go by Sunday night.”

“The car wasn’t ready last Monday. You built her in two days!”

“Well, the car had been race ready. I just had to adjust her to your style.” 

Sherlock didn’t seem very happy about the prospect.

“Can’t I just do it on Monday?”

“We’re moving the cars down to Germany on Tuesday.”

“So Monday could work.”

“They will test her before that.”

“Who will?”

“Josh or Lucas or whoever needs a few laps on their CV.”

“Preposterous!”

“Protocol,” John countered and Sherlock turned around and whipped his phone out of his pocket. He speed dialled a number and John began to understand the reason why Sherlock was still on talking terms with his brother. “Mycroft. I need you to do something for me!”

“Sherlock, let it go!” he asked quietly, but Sherlock walked a few paces further away from him. 

“I need you to make sure that nobody comes near the car this weekend while we are away!”

John wanted to interrupt him, but his own phone started vibrating in his pocket. It was a text from Jenson. 

_I know I’m late, but we’re down the hall from you and something isn’t working._

“Sherlock, I’m going to see Jenson about his car,” he announced, and left Sherlock to talk to his brother. The last words he heard when he walked out were “I don’t care if you don’t have authority, you always find a way …”

John wasn’t sure he wanted to know about what kind of authority Mycroft Holmes had over his work and he prayed that it didn’t extend to the garage. If that was the case, he'd have to have a serious talk with Sherlock. He quickly texted Lestrade. _Please keep Mycroft Holmes on the leash. Sherlock is trying to get a favour out of him. Don’t let him!_

With a sigh, John knocked on the last door down the hall and entered Anderson’s garage. Jenson was currently sitting in the car, looking somewhat bored, while Anderson and Carmen, his assistant, pored over the plans which Lestrade had sent them. 

“John, good, you’re here. Didn’t think he’d let you out of his sight,” Anderson greeted him and John was ready to turn around and leave again on the spot. It was Jenson’s pleading expression that made him stay. 

“What do you need?”

For the next thirty minutes, John checked the motor for errors, but he couldn’t find any. When they tried to breathe life into it, it simply didn’t work. “We followed your plan exactly; I don’t know why it doesn’t work.”

Jenson explained that they had worked on it all day, and that he had been excited to try it out later, but that something just didn’t add up. So John sat down and read through his plans again, feeling regret gnaw at the edge of his consciousness. He had left Sherlock by himself for over half an hour and he really just wanted to go home. 

Jenson eventually pressed a cup of tea into his hands, which John welcomed with a thankful smile. “Could you go check on him?”

“The trust you must have, leaving him with your car and equipment … I can only imagine the destruction he could bring about if he wanted to.”

Jenson had been about to leave, but Anderson’s words made him turn around again. “Just shut up, Anderson. There’s really no need for this!”

John bit down his own, much less polite answer to Anderson’s baleful remark and sipped on his tea. Carmen smiled at him apologetically and John nodded his thanks. A minute later, his phone chimed with a text message from Sherlock. _You forgot a page._

John blinked hard and read the message again. Then he began checking his plans again and found that, for some reason, a whole page was missing. He hadn't paid attention to the numbers on the bottom of each sheet of paper. John grabbed a pen and forced himself to concentrate, filling in the missing information which specified which additional padding he had added underneath the motor to make up for the slightly elevated bottom of the case. The padding made sure that the cables were connected flawlessly and the missing millimetre had caused the cables to hang slightly loose, which had kept them from properly transmitting signals.

 _How did you know?_ he texted back. 

_Checked your mail. You copied the whole document but the missing page gave an error message and didn’t send._

_You’re in my mailbox?_ John wasn’t sure whether he should be offended or impressed. 

_Have you finished?_

_Depends._ John could see Sherlock’s eye roll in his mind and he had to grin. 

_Mycroft says it’s protocol._ John’s grin widened. 

_Will be right there._ He got up and handed Anderson his notes. “I’ll be out of town this weekend, so if anything comes up I won’t be able to help. Carmen, have a lovely weekend.” He left without saying anything else. It was childish to be so annoyed with his colleague and he regretted that Carmen, who was a rather kind and professional women, had to witness his behaviour, but he couldn’t help himself and Anderson was obviously not willing to let it go either. 

He found Sherlock in the garage, leaning against Molly and talking quietly with Jenson, who sat on a chair with his feet propped up on a work desk. He dropped his feet immediately when he saw John. 

“Good of you to work so hard,” John chuckled and gave Jenson a push that caused him to roll a few feet through the room on the wheels of his chair. “Thanks for your help, Sherlock.”

Sherlock simply nodded and rose to his feet. Jenson stood up, too, and for a fleeting second John wondered what they had talked about. “You two have a lovely weekend. Send me a postcard and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he winked at John and Sherlock inhaled sharply. It was the sudden hug Jenson gave him that shut him up before he could say anything. 

John chuckled and pulled Jenson away from Sherlock and hugged him, too. “Thank you, you're the best,” he murmured before pulled away. 

Jenson smiled and turned to go. “Nice love bite, by the way.” He was out of the room before either John or Sherlock could react.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled himself out of his slightly shocked state and ruffled his hair. “Right.”

“You okay?” John was amused by how easily Jenson managed to confuse Sherlock.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You can tell him to back off, if you’d prefer that.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at John with interest. “Are you jealous?”

John pressed his trembling lips together for as long as he could before he burst out laughing. Sherlock looked mildly offended before he joined him in his laughter. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here?” John gently squeezed Sherlock’s arm before he walked over to the car to give her one last once over. He knew that the car would be treated with the utmost care and that he would check on her before letting Sherlock drive it. He told Sherlock so, but Sherlock decided to ignore him and pretended to be doing something important with his phone - which, John found out when he stepped closer, was looking at the picture of them snogging that he had sent Mycroft to piss him off. 

John giggled and caught himself just before he did anything inappropriate to him. 

Together, they made their way back to John’s office where they found a large packet on Sherlock’s desk. A post-it announced that Sherlock should have a look at the content and report to Lestrade before leaving. With a sigh, Sherlock opened the carton and made an annoyed noise. John, who had sat down to change the password to his email account, looked over to him. “What is it?”

Sherlock pulled out a folder which contained multiple offers for sponsorships. “I only won a single race and will not continue in the sport, why do these companies think it’s a good idea to sponsor me?”

“They want their logo on your body. Hell, I would spend good money to have my company’s name written on your chest.”

Sherlock grinned. “You don’t have a company, John.”

“John Hamish Watson’s hands-on evening entertainment.”

Sherlock laughed out loud. “Hamish?” 

“Oy, fuck off,” John laughed and pushed his office chair over to where Sherlock stood. “You are forgiven if you kiss me, though.”

Sherlock put down the folder and pulled John out of his chair. “I’d gladly let you sponsor me. Actually, I think I will sign that contract.” He drew his right index finger across John’s chest and pinched a nipple through the fabric of his t-shirt. John grunted and swatted his hand away before he pulled him in for a long, sweet kiss. 

Sherlock made a content noise and John pulled away, feeling himself get excited about the prospect of drawing that noise from him in a different setting. “Okay, let’s talk to Greg and then I will take you out for dinner.”

“And you will do your exercises before … well, the evening entertainment.”

John grinned and kissed him again. “I’m fairly sure that there might be a way of connecting the two.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock smirked and squeezed John’s arse. “I might just want to sit back and enjoy the show.”

“We’ll see,” John pressed another quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips before he went to switch off his computer and collected his things. Sherlock was already waiting at the door, the folder under his arm. “Hamish,” he repeated when John walked past him. He kept grinning all the way to Lestrade’s office. “No wonder you want to come to Scotland with me.”

“Sherlock,” John stopped him before he could knock. “I’m only not punching you on the nose because I love that nose, but please do consider that I have shown great restraint where it comes to your name.” 

“You made fun of our names!”

“Please leave your brother out of this …”

Sherlock snickered and knocked on the door before straightening up and wiping the amused expression off his face when he entered the office first. 

“Come in!” Lestrade sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paper and empty coffee cups.

“Are you alright?” John asked his boss, unable to remember having seen the office in such a state. 

“New rules to read through. Next season will be very different. Nothing that needs to concern you at the moment. We’ll talk things through in Hungary.”

Sherlock stepped closer to the desk and Lestrade quickly closed the folder he had been reading. “How much would it mean if I was sponsored?”

John stared at the back for Sherlock’s head while Lestrade sat back in his chair to look up at him with a surprised expression. 

“Why do you ask?”

“First you bring up Mycroft as a sponsor for John, now you send me this,” Sherlock placed the folder on the one his boss has closed a moment ago. “There’s clearly a money issue.”

“Not a large scale issue.”

“But enough to worry you.”

“I’m not worried about the company. We’re fine.”

“But?” John chimed in. 

“I want to offer you more.”

John frowned, not sure what he was talking about. 

“More what?”

“I want to pay you what you should be paid.”

“Lestrade, I’m really fine.”

“Have you looked at the statistics?”

“What statistics?”

“Race performance, endurance, publicity, our stocks have gone up.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“That's your work,” Sherlock looked from Lestrade to John. “You did that.”

John huffed out a laugh. “I did my job, which, thanks to both of you and Mike, I was actually able to do and, well,” he scratched his neck. “Sherlock won a race. We’re nowhere near established. Next week could go entirely different.”

“Oh, hold on, before you talk yourself out of your success, let me interrupt you.” Lestrade opened Sherlock’s folder and smoothed down the top page. “John, there are offers in here that we would be stupid not to take into consideration.”

“Then Sherlock signs a deal and everyone’s happy?”

“Not everyone.”

“What?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly and John stepped closer, looking back and forth between him and Lestrade. “What?”

“I’ve only driven one race,” Sherlock argued a point that John didn’t understand. “I can’t sign now.”

“I want you in that seat.”

“What you talking about?” John felt his patience slip. He cleared his throat. “Can you please tell me what I am missing here?”

“We want to offer Sherlock Kevin’s place.”

John stared at his boss, not quite comprehending what he had just proposed. “If he keeps being in the top five, we’d be mad not to.”

John exhaled slowly, not quite knowing what to think. 

“John?” Sherlock reached out to touch his wrist. “Are you okay?”

“Umm, yeah. I umm. What about Kevin?”

“He’s injured for now and he might be out for a while longer.”

“Stoffel?”

“Hasn’t driven a race, never mind won. He'll get his chance eventually.”

“This is political, isn’t it?”

“Everything’s political, John. But it’s also about giving you two the chances you deserve.”

“Kevin is going to hate this.”

“We’ll make sure that he’s alright.”

“And Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at John for a long moment before he stepped forward and picked up the folder. “I’ll think about it.”

Lestrade nodded. “I appreciate that.”

John didn’t quite know what to do, so he just decided to report on the car, ignoring the queasy feeling that had come with Lestrade’s announcement. Lestrade promised to take good care of her and reminded them to have their phones on them at all times. Then he grinned at them and told them to enjoy the weekend. 

Once they had left the building, John stopped in the car park, looking back at the large glass building. It was a different place from what it had been two weeks ago. He was simultaneously more attached to and estranged from it. “I don’t know. I never thought that they would consider letting him go.”

“I didn’t mean to interfere.”

“You haven’t even met him.” John knew he was being unfair, but the whole thing had thrown him off. 

“No, I haven’t.”

“He’s a good driver.”

“I know. I analysed his data. He’s been doing better than Jenson lately.”

“Oh god, what if they do the maths and they let Jenson go?”

“John. I haven’t said yes to anything. And it’s obviously bothering you, so let’s just not talk about it?”

“I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

“Okay, so we do talk about it?”

“Over dinner. I need something to eat. And a drink, or three.”

“Okay, where would you like to go?”

“Somewhere quiet, out of the way.”

Sherlock nodded and held out his hand for John’s keys. “I’m driving.”


	44. Chapter Forty-Four

They found a small pub at the outskirts of London and John ordered two pints of Guinness before he realised that one of them shouldn’t drink - he had been too preoccupied about the whole situation at work. He placed the order for food before returning to the table with the two glasses. 

Sherlock’s raised eyebrow made John blush. He was glad for the dim lighting in the room. “I forgot,” he simply said. “Do you want them?”

Sherlock smiled and took one of the glasses. “I’ll just pretend that I am drinking with you.”

John exhaled slowly, trying to clear his head. “I’m sorry I’ve been so irritable all day.”

“You’re anxious to get away.”

“I’m anxious to get you into bed, that’s what I am,” John admitted under his breath. Sherlock chuckled. “Cheers,” John said and they clinked glasses. John drank while Sherlock put his own glass back down. 

“Would it make you feel better if I decided not to take Lestrade up on the offer?”

“I really don’t know,” John said after allowing himself a moment to think about it. “I think you deserve a chance, yes. I also think that I’m not cut out for that kind of decision making. I mean, people leave and contracts run out and I know that this would be a logical step to take. It’s just that so much has changed recently and I … I don’t know if I can handle any more change at the moment.”

Sherlock watched him calmly, but something told John that he wasn’t sure what to make of his words.

“I don’t even know if Kevin’s contract is running out at the end of the season. I’m not sure about Jenson either. But I don’t think I could handle it if Jenson had to leave.”

Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”

John studied his face, wondering why he looked so timid all of the sudden. “What about you? What do you want?”

He leaned forward to be able to speak more quietly. “I don’t want to be too much change.”

John blinked at him stupidly before it began to dawn on him how Sherlock had interpreted his words. He wanted to reformulate that thought, but he could tell that Sherlock would stop him if he tried. Sherlock leaned back again, nervously dragging his glass back and forth through the circle of liquid that had formed around it on the table. John swallowed hard and reached across the table to touch and steady Sherlock’s hands. Just in that moment, their food arrived at the table and John pulled back, resenting the interruption. Nevertheless, he thanked the waiter and started eating. Sherlock watched him.

“Please eat?” John asked Sherlock after he had sat there for a while, silently looking at John. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” Sherlock finally admitted, pulling his plate closer. “I did not intend on interfering with your life and I understand that you are in need of stability in order to fully recover.”

John wanted to interrupt him, but he knew that it would be better to have it all out in the open now rather than to hold on to unspoken words which might hurt them later. 

“I underestimated your struggle and I am sure that Lestrade did, too,” Sherlock continued quietly. “I was excited about meeting you and I was excited about driving your car and I did not stop to think about what I was doing to you by just barging into your life and expecting so much.”

John knew he should be saddened by these words. He knew that Sherlock was feeling guilty and that he should acknowledge it and tell him what it was that he needed. Instead, he stretched his legs and pulled at Sherlock’s left leg, trapping it between his ankles. “You’re the bloody best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he finally said. 

“But?” Sherlock clearly expected John to explain to him why they needed a break, why things couldn’t continue the way they had started. 

“But,” John started and he could see Sherlock’s whole body stiffening, “you are also the change I desperately needed. I am so glad that you barged into my life and that you put it upside down and that you made me reconsider everything.” Sherlock relaxed again and John wished that they weren’t in a bar and that there wasn’t a table between them. “I’m not saying that change is bad. I’m just saying that this,” he pointed at Sherlock and then back at himself, “is all I am willing to concentrate on at the moment.”

“So, …”

“Eat,” John said and nodded at his food. “And then we go home.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and picked up his fork. “Okay.”

John took his time to think about their conversation. He had meant every word he had said, but Sherlock was right. The last few days had been a lot. However, in the end he wouldn’t want to give Sherlock up for anything. And all he really wanted at the moment was to go home and spread him out on the mattress and touch him. 

A grin forced him to stop drinking and he looked at Sherlock over the rim of his glass. Sherlock met his eyes and a feeling that he could only describe as sharp and white shot through his guts. He put down his glass with a shaking hand and leaned back, trying to catch his breath. 

Across from him, Sherlock seemed equally affected. John could see how wide his pupils were and how his chest was flushed just above the open collar of his shirt. He had rarely felt as helpless and powerful at the same time. To shake himself out of his state and make sure that he wouldn’t just stand up and drag Sherlock down to the floor with him, he coughed loudly, sniffed and took another large gulp of his drink, finishing it. Then he leaned forward and exchanged their glasses. 

Sherlock’s beer was warm by now, but John couldn’t care less. He needed something to hold on to. 

“Should we go?” Sherlock asked after a while, his voice sounding rough. John avoided looking at him and nodded. Just when they wanted to get up, a young woman approached the table. She seemed aware that she was interrupting something, but she had an opened notebook in her hand and politely cleared her throat. “Excuse me? I really don’t want to bother you, Mr. Holmes. I just … I mean … I was wondering if you would sign this for me?”

John’s head shot around to Sherlock and he caught his eye. Sherlock clearly remembered John’s remark, and he was indeed fighting with himself as to whether he should send her away or sign it. A few awkward seconds passed before Sherlock started patting his pockets, apparently looking for a pen that wasn’t there. “I don’t have anything to sign with,” he apologised and the woman blushed visibly. 

“Oh, I … I am sorry, I thought …” she was about to retreat again when John stood up. “Hold on, I’ll go and find a pen.”

Sherlock gave him a look that made John bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself from its effects. 

“Oh, thank you very much. That is very kind of you.” It was only when she talked to him that she seemed to recognise him. “Oh, you’re Doctor Watson!”

“Doctor?” Sherlock asked amused. John had no idea what she was talking about. 

“Oh, we call him that. I mean, the fanclub.” 

John chuckled and told her to wait. He asked the man behind the counter for a pen, which he provided with an expression that told John that he also knew who Sherlock Holmes was. John decided that they wouldn’t go out to dinner anymore if they had personal issues to work through. Things could become too intense and obvious. 

He walked back to the table where he was greeted with awkward silence and handed Sherlock the pen. “Why do you call me that?”

“Well, you made that car much better,” she smiled. “Would you please sign for me, too?”

John grinned. “Sure.”

Sherlock signed his name in the middle of the sheet and then added a small ‘thank you’ below it. John smirked when he took the notebook from him. “What’s your name, darling?” 

“Just Anna,” she answered, blushing even more deeply. 

“Just Anna?” John grinned and winked at her, making her raise her hands in protest before she understood that he was just teasing her. 

He wrote her a short thank you note and signed with his name, adding his honorary title in brackets before he handed the notebook back to her. “It was nice meeting you, Anna,” he said and held out his hand. She blinked at it for a moment before she took and shook it. “An honour. You’ve made us all very proud.”

Sherlock watched him, looking slightly bewildered, before he also held out his hand. “Have a good evening,” he murmured and gave her a quick fake smile. John bit his tongue before he turned back to Sherlock, clearly signalling her that she could and should leave now. 

Sherlock excused himself to use the bathroom while John took another large gulp from Sherlock’s beer. He started to feel the alcohol just enough to relax him and he yawned heartily just when Sherlock returned. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

John tried not to smile too widely when they left the pub, but once he was in the car, he looked at Sherlock with his emotions clearly visible in his face. Only the thought of being watched kept him from leaning over and kissing Sherlock. 

It took them another half hour to return to Baker Street and John felt giddy when Sherlock unlocked the front door. He was ready to attack Sherlock and kiss him senseless right there on the stairs when the door to 221A opened and Mrs Hudson stuck out her head. 

“I’ve been waiting for you two to come home,” she said with a knowing smile. 

“You’re back,” Sherlock noted, quite unnecessarily. John realised that he had completely forgotten about the fact that he possibly should have informed her of his moving in with Sherlock and that the chance that she could have walked in on them this morning wasn’t as low as he would have liked. “Hi Mrs Hudson,” he said with a small wave of his hand.

“Do I take it that your talk went alright then,” she continued smiling as if she was just learning about the fruition of a long hatched plan. It probably was exactly that, John mused. 

Sherlock pulled John close to him and nodded. “He’s staying here now. I mean, upstairs, with me.”

“You’re not rushing it at all then,” she laughed and shook her head. “You two be safe, that’s all I ask.”

“He’s coming to Scotland with me, too,” Sherlock sounded rather proud, and John had the distinct feeling that this was as close as he would ever get to a meet the parents with Sherlock. 

“I never got the chance to really thank you,” John piped up and was met with another smile. 

“That’s quite alright,” Mrs Hudson looked at them for a moment longer before she turned to go back into her flat. “You come down to report to me tomorrow morning, young man,” she directed her words at Sherlock and John wanted to laugh at the way Sherlock shrank an inch in reaction. 

“Good night,” Sherlock said pointedly and pushed John up a step. 

“Night, boys,” Mrs Hudson’s happy voice disappeared with the closing door. 

John giggled until they were safely inside the flat with the door closed behind them. Sherlock shook his head with a grin and walked over to his desk where a stack of mail sat. John leaned back against the door and watched him look at every single envelope only to put them all down unopened. 

“I don’t know about you, but I would very much like to get into bed with you.”

Sherlock continued to stare at the letters, but John could see the tension in his shoulders. For some reason, Sherlock was still drawing it out. 

John decided that attack would be the best strategy to achieve his goal. “Or, you know, the couch would be fine as well, though I think we should draw the curtains shut.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply but he didn’t move. 

“The desk would do, too,” John offered and Sherlock finally reacted. He leaned forward, grabbing the edge of the desk with both hands while his breath escaped in a shaky sigh. 

John felt his heart in his throat. “Take off your shirt,” he said calmly, but with no room for interpretation. It was definitely an order. 

Sherlock swallowed hard and reached up to unbutton his shirt. 

“Take it off. Slowly,” John was glad now that he was leaning against the door. He wasn’t sure if he could do this without having something to ground him. 

Sherlock took a few seconds to loosen his last button, his hands were shaking so much. John wasn’t sure whether he was truly nervous or whether it was the pent up arousal that he had tried to hide during the day. He enjoyed every second of it. 

The shirt hit the floor silently and John wanted nothing more than to rush forward and touch Sherlock, but he wanted to see how far he could take this. 

“Trousers,” John ordered, resisting the urge to touch himself. “Slowly.”

He could see Sherlock’s rapid breathing by the way his shoulders rose and fell in quick succession. He stood too far away to hear the rasp of it. 

Sherlock reached down to unbutton his trousers and used the desk to hold himself up while he kicked off his shoes. Then he pushed his trousers down slowly and John swallowed back a moan that would have doubtlessly pulled Sherlock out of the obedience he was currently showing him. Sherlock’s erection pressed against his pants. “Take them off, too,” John fought to keep his voice even. 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before he stripped out of his underwear quickly, kicking both trousers and pants away from his feet before taking off his socks, too. John made a small noise and Sherlock looked at him, a gleam in his eyes. “You didn’t say slowly,” he argued and John found that he couldn’t keep up the act. He giggled and pushed himself away from the door. They met half way in the living room and John immediately reached up to push his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pull him down for a kiss. Sherlock didn’t step closer until John dropped one hand on the small of his back and pulled. A small grunt escaped Sherlock when his erection pressed against John’s clothes. 

“Fuck. I need you,” John whispered and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s back, holding him tightly against his body. Sherlock pressed one warm hand against the nape of John’s neck and let the other slip under his shirt, caressing his back slowly. “Let me take you to bed,” John murmured against his chin once he had made sure that Sherlock wouldn’t disappear into thin air. He didn’t know why he had suddenly felt afraid, but Sherlock seemed to understand just like he had understood his panic attacks. John inhaled deeply and revelled in the smell of sweat, aftershave and the metallic scent that working at the garage had left on both of them. 

Sherlock waited for a moment longer before he slowly pulled back, took John’s hand in his, and led him to the bedroom.


	45. Chapter Forty-Fife

The bed was still unmade and John smiled when he remembered what Sherlock had looked like when he had woken up. The thought that he would be able to see him like this every morning made him take hold of Sherlock and pull him into a fierce kiss once again. “Sorry,” he apologised after he had pulled back. Sherlock just smiled and pressed another quick kiss against his lips. 

“Get on the bed,” John tried to re-establish the mood from minutes ago and Sherlock stepped back, waiting. 

“On your back,” John added, feeling his skin break out in gooseflesh just thinking about how pliant Sherlock could be if he wanted. “Legs apart. Arms above your head.”

Sherlock actually moaned at his words and John fought hard not to touch him. He slowly crawled onto the bed, giving John another lovely view of his arse and back and the back of his thighs before he flipped over, raising his arms to clutch the edge of the mattress before he spread his legs, slowly, fully aware of John’s eyes on him. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” John whispered hoarsely and Sherlock whimpered. His cock twitched visibly and John felt that he would burst with need if he didn’t touch him now. Toeing off his shoes, he first knelt on the bed and then settled down between Sherlock’s legs on his elbows and knees. The tang of sweat was much stronger between Sherlock’s legs and he found that he could smell his arousal as well. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s cock, feeling it twitch against the palm of his hand. They groaned in unison. 

He was very warm and John spit into his hand to be able to move better on him. He pulled on Sherlock’s leg until he hooked it over his shoulder, resting Sherlock’s foot on his back. When John kissed along the length of Sherlock’s erection, he could feel his toes curl against his skin. He alternated between kissing Sherlock’s inner thighs, nipping occasionally to make him jump, and messily kissing his cock. He had absolutely no intention to let him come anytime soon. Sherlock would suffer for his arrogance, even if it had just been pretence.

After a few minutes, John had found several spots on his legs, hips and lower stomach which seemed to be more sensitive than the rest of Sherlock’s middle excluding his genitals. Particularly the spot where he had previously left his mark by sucking hard on his skin drew the most delicious sounds from Sherlock when he repeated the action or licked and kissed it. 

When he finally took Sherlock’s erection into his hand and let it slip between his lips, Sherlock’s hands flew down to John’s head, pushing hard in a bid to get him to take in more of him. John wanted to, but he knew that Sherlock half expected him to reprimand him. He pulled back and looked at Sherlock, whose face was a mask of desperation. He did not even have to say anything before Sherlock pulled his hands back and slowly placed them above his head again. 

When John leaned down again to suck him back between his lips, he felt desperate, too. He wanted to feel Sherlock’s sweat slick skin on his own. He wanted to hold him and feel his fingers against his cock and his legs around his hips. He wanted to watch his face when he came, his eyes almost black with pleasure, his chest flushed with arousal and heat. 

John started to move faster, causing Sherlock to arch up, almost choking him. He grabbed his hips to pin him down and sped up even more. Sherlock, who had been relatively quiet until then, began to grunt at first, but soon he moaned loudly, drawing his arms towards his body, grabbing the pillow next to his head and holding on with white knuckles. When John took hold of the base of his cock and squeezed gently while keeping his rhythm going, Sherlock started shaking. “John!” he cried out and arched up again and John pulled back, pushing Sherlock’s leg off his shoulder and holding him down on the bed by his thighs. 

For a few seconds, Sherlock fought hard to come, but the lack of John’s touch and the clear signal his sudden retreat had sent held him back. His breath sounded raw in his throat and John wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started to complain loudly. Instead, he pressed his eyes closed, his cock pulsing against his stomach. 

He watched him until Sherlock had calmed down and the twitching stopped. He knew that he could make it even harder for him by continuing to touch him, but he didn’t know how far Sherlock would let him go, so he began to undress instead. Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the rustle of the clothes and he pushed himself up on his elbows when John undid his jeans. 

Once he was naked, John looked up and found Sherlock smiling at him with such intensity that he felt unable to move or say anything. A few quick heartbeats passed before he understood that what irritated him was the fact the Sherlock seemed perfectly content at the edge of orgasm. John had imagined that Sherlock would be desperate, or at least annoyed, but the smile only made him very much aware of his own desperation.

“Arms above your head,” he said again, but his voice shook with arousal and Sherlock’s smile turned into a smirk before he leaned back and took hold of the edge of the mattress again. John tried to breathe quietly, but the thought of touching Sherlock again made his breath catch in his throat. He knelt down on the bed and shuffled close to Sherlock, who obediently spread his legs again without being asked. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and with one strong pull, which he immediately regretted for the pain in his shoulder and simultaneously would never regret for the look on Sherlock’s face, he tugged Sherlock on top of his thighs, pressing Sherlock’s legs further apart and leaning forward to suck him into his mouth again. 

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock groaned, forgetting his arms for a moment to press one hand across his mouth to stifle a louder moan. It was only when John pressed his thumb against his perinnium that he dropped his hand and shamelessly started moaning with every breath that left his lips. 

John was so preoccupied with the noises Sherlock made, which grew ever louder, that he missed the warning signs and suddenly felt Sherlock’s legs tighten around his body, effectively trapping him in position a moment before Sherlock started coming. Sherlock arched his back so that only his head and shoulders still touched the mattress while his arms pressed against his stomach, his fingers curling with the need to hold on to something without being sure what he was allowed to do. John watched him with watering eyes. He tried to swallow as much as he could, but the pressure around his ribs and the intensity of Sherlock’s orgasm made it impossible for him to concentrate on anything other than the heat of the moment and to somehow keep breathing. 

Slowly, Sherlock relaxed again. He let his legs fall open and his hands slipped down his sides. His breathing was still rapid and he looked stunned. John reached out to wipe a hand across Sherlock’s stomach, catching the traces of his orgasm which he had failed to swallow. Sherlock’s whole body shuddered hard and his hands curled into fists. Once he had calmed down again, goose flesh spread across his legs, stomach, chest and arms. 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He simply stared at John in wonder. 

John tugged Sherlock’s right leg up and kissed his knee. A small whimper escaped Sherlock and suddenly John felt the urge to just hold him – to hold him close and make him feel safe. He repeated the motion with Sherlock’s other leg and this time Sherlock pushed himself up and grabbed John’s shoulders, pulling him down on top of himself. John gasped when a flash of pain shot through him, but once he was spread out across Sherlock’s body, he couldn’t find the energy to care. Sherlock was smiling again, but there were tears in his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” John asked, gently touching his face. Sherlock blinked and the tears spilled over, wetting John’s thumb on his cheek. He sniffed and then nodded, lifting his head to kiss John. The kiss was messy and every few seconds, Sherlock smiled too widely for John to be able to continue kissing him. In the end they settled for simply holding each other. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John while John’s arms were tucked under Sherlock’s arms, cradling his back. John pressed his face against Sherlock’s cheeks, kissing away the salt and marvelling at how intensely alive he felt at this moment. 

“What about you?” Sherlock eventually asked, his voice rough and raw. 

John huffed out a laugh and kissed the spot right underneath Sherlock’s ear. “Am I getting to heavy for you?”

“No,” Sherlock answered immediately. “It’s not that.”

Nevertheless, John made a move to roll off him but Sherlock was having none of it. He kept holding on and after a bit of a wrestle, John found himself pressed down against the mattress by a very clingy man who refused to let go of him. He chuckled and pushed one hand into Sherlock’s hair, gently scratching his scalp. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he moaned loudly with pleasure. 

“Thank you for letting me do this to you,” John said quietly. He meant it, too. Considering Sherlock’s lack of experience, the mere fact that he had let him go that far spoke of immense trust. Sherlock folded his arms across John’s chest and looked down on him. “I never knew I could feel like this. I … I felt it in my toes and in my finger tips.” He spread his hands out. “And you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“I thought that was why you wanted me as your partner,” John joked and Sherlock grinned. 

“Had I known that your field of expertise extends so far beyond cars, I … I don’t know what I would have done,” he interrupted himself with a laugh. “I never really thought about sex before. Like this, I mean. Real sex. I only ever … I … well, you saw how I usually approach the issue.”

“That’s why I wanted to make it last.”

“I think for a moment I lost my mind,” Sherlock admitted. “I couldn’t think. I couldn’t hold on to any single thought. But it wasn’t scary, not what it felt like waking up …,” he stopped, looking at John as if he had been about to say something he shouldn’t. 

“It’s okay,” John murmured. “You can talk about anything you need to talk about.”

“But you haven’t even come yet and I don’t want to talk about the accident.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock, really. Now, tell me again. I made you lose your mind,” he grinned. 

“I think even if the room had been on fire I would have been unable to do anything but feel you. That was extraordinary.”

“Yeah, it was,” John nodded. “It really was. I wanted to do this all day. It was driving me mad that I couldn’t touch you. I never wanted to touch anyone as badly as I wanted to touch you today.” 

“I know. I mean, I noticed. But I didn’t know how much. I didn’t know this was even possible.”

John blushed both because he was flattered and because he imagined a whole lot of things that would blow Sherlock’s mind once he was willing to let him do them to him.

“Oh god, there’s more, isn’t there?” Sherlock looked both intrigued and bashful. 

John chuckled and kissed him. “Yeah, there’s more.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. “Right. Erm. Now.” He pushed himself up on his arms so that he hovered over John’s body while their hips were still pressed together and looked down between them. His own soft cock rested next to John’s erection. When Sherlock had started to cry, John’s arousal had been replaced by more urgent thoughts and emotions, but once Sherlock had told John about losing his mind, John had become intensely aroused again. Now he was willing to let Sherlock decide what to do with him.

Sherlock rolled off of John and reached for the lube on his night stand. John watched him sit up, the traces of his tears still on his face, his hair tousled from his hands and the bed, a few sweaty curls sticking to his temples, his chest still flushed from his orgasm. A small noise escaped John before he could force it back. Sherlock’s eyes immediately shot to his face, searching for an answer to his unasked question and John wished he could have saved this image of Sherlock for eternity. 

Their eyes remained locked when Sherlock let some lube drip onto the palm of his hand and he dropped down on his side, throwing one leg across John’s knee to pull his legs apart slightly. John tipped up his chin and Sherlock read his request correctly. He kissed him slowly, taking his time to nip at John’s lower lip and to lick the corners of his mouth when they curled up in a smile. John allowed himself to relax, reaching up to push the curls out of Sherlock’s eyes. 

“May I?” Sherlock finally asked and John cocked his head in mock irritation. 

“You don’t have to ask, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. “I know. But I want to.”

John looked at him for a long silent moment before he nodded. “Yes, please,” he whispered, awed by Sherlock’s words. 

With another kiss, Sherlock took him into his hand and carefully started stroking him. He was too gentle, too hesitant to give John what he craved, but John felt that he didn’t have any right to complain after edging Sherlock earlier. He gasped and stretched his legs to get rid of the nervous need in his limbs. It didn’t help. Sherlock’s thumb slowly circled his head, playing with his foreskin and John found that he couldn’t control his breathing any longer. He gasped with every breath he drew. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock requested quietly. 

John grunted and dragged his eyes away from Sherlock’s hand. “Data?”

“Data,” Sherlock confirmed with a small grin. 

Once John didn’t watch what he was doing any longer, Sherlock became playful. He stopped every now and then to study the expression on John’s face, just to speed up and properly stroke him from base to head, making it hard for John to keep his eyes open. Eventually Sherlock stopped again. He kept looking at John, but his expression had changed. He wasn’t merely observing now, he was thinking. John felt almost hypnotised by his eyes, so focused and sharp and yet bright with emotion and arousal. For a moment John wondered whether it were endorphins or adrenaline which made Sherlock appear like the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, but he decided that it didn’t matter and that he simply was. 

Sherlock’s hand slipped underneath his testicles and this time, John didn’t stop him. He would have preferred to have showered before they began exploring those parts of their bodies, but if Sherlock was willing to go that far then John wouldn’t hold him back. 

He pressed down, testing John’s resistance, and, after pushing harder and circling him a few times, found that there was very little of that. John tried to breathe evenly, but most of his energy went into preventing his hips from pressing upwards to force Sherlock’s finger deeper inside. His hand clutched Sherlock’s arm and waves of gooseflesh raced across his skin. Sherlock’s pushed deeper. 

It was slightly uncomfortable and he needed more lube, but John was sure that if he started moving now, he would come without any further attention to his body. A desperate sound escaped his lips when Sherlock twisted his finger around. He was barely in past his first knuckle, but just the thought that it was Sherlock’s finger that was doing this to him brought him to the brink of orgasm. 

Sherlock pulled out again and John’s eyes fell shut. Sherlock made an impatient sound and he forced himself to look at him again. When he did, Sherlock pushed back in – further this time. John’s whole body was on fire and he knew he was hurting Sherlock by holding on to his arm as forcefully as he did, but he had no control over his limbs anymore. He arched his back and pushed against Sherlock’s finger, forcing him in deeper. “Please, please,” he whispered, desperate for some friction. “Please!”

Sherlock’s face was flushed pink and John prayed that he was alright with what they were doing, but he couldn’t drag himself back from where he was. Not now. Not when Sherlock twisted his finger again and then curled it. 

John’s free hand flew up to his face and he bit down hard on the base of his thumb. It was only Sherlock’s leg which trapped his own that kept him pressed down to the mattress when his back arched up. He felt his own come hit his chest and face and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe. 

Only when Sherlock pulled out his finger and took up stroking him again, he inhaled sharply, grunting when a flash of heat made him arch up again and again. “Bloody hell!” he gasped once he felt that his vocal chords were on his side again. He shuddered and Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. 

“How’s that for data?” John curled into Sherlock’s embrace. He had never come from just a finger. Never. It was like Sherlock was as much in his head as he was right there next to him which made him react so much more intensely to his touch than he ever had to anybody elses. 

“Nowhere near sufficient,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence and then they both started giggling.


	46. Chapter Forty-Six

Sherlock held John tightly and John eventually grew sleepy, but he knew that they should at least attempt to pack if they wanted to leave in the morning. The fact that Mrs Hudson had requested Sherlock’s presence would mean that they would leave later than they probably would have otherwise, so John finally stretched and kissed Sherlock’s chin. “I need a shower,” he murmured and Sherlock grunted, holding on more tightly. 

“I will not fight you,” John said with a smile, “but I _will_ tickle you.”

Sherlock immediately pulled his arms close to his sides and effectively released John from his embrace. 

“Ha. I found your kryptonite,” John chuckled and Sherlock looked at him confused. “Never mind.”

“You have to do your exercises,” Sherlock reminded him when John was almost in the bathroom. “And I want to … help.”

John turned around to wink at him before he closed the door behind him. John enjoyed the shower immensely, but he wished that Sherlock had joined him. He’d gone much further than he had anticipated – they both had, really – and it made John giddy. He would take Sherlock to a pharmacy to get condoms, whether they planned on having penetrative sex or not. He didn’t want to risk a scenario in which Sherlock decided that he wanted to try and they couldn’t, because they didn’t come prepared. 

He grinned when he washed himself, imagining Sherlock on the other side of the door, reconsidering everything he knew about sex. He squirmed when he washed away the lube and he made sure to be entirely clean, just in case Sherlock wanted to repeat what he had just tried. 

Once he stepped out of the shower, he was slightly aroused again. He brushed his teeth in the hopes that it might pass, but it didn’t, so he wrapped the towel around his hips and went to join Sherlock in his bedroom. “Join me, next time?” John asked when Sherlock looked up from the bed, looking completely knackered and yet very much delighted by John’s return from the bathroom. 

“I will, next time. Give me a minute.” He rolled off the bed and barely managed to land on his feet. When he walked past him, John slapped his arse. Sherlock grunted in surprise but didn’t say anything. 

While Sherlock showered, John randomly picked clothes out of his bag and put them on a pile. He hadn’t had time to put anything away yet, but he wanted to at least have a few things to take to Scotland with him. He only realised how silly he was unpacking the only bag he had and simply created a pile of all of his clothes next to Sherlock's wardrobe. Then he stuffed eight pairs of pants into his much too large bag, guessing that one for each day probably wouldn’t be enough. Two pairs of trousers and a few t-shirts, a jumper and his team's windbreaker, topped off with a handful of socks before he felt that he’d done his part for the night and dug out Aki’s instructions. 

He sighed, staring at the pages, knowing that he simply had to start, but somehow he felt paralysed. Closing his eyes, he reached for his shoulder, pressing down gently, then harder, until he felt the pain properly. It didn’t feel right, but it felt like it was all he truly knew. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice came from the bathroom door and John exhaled slowly and opened his eyes again. 

“Saying good bye,” he murmured. 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock admitted, stepping closer, reaching out but not touching him. 

John held out the instructions to him. “It’s all I am. The pain. That’s all I was this past year.”

“John.” Just his name, spoken with understanding and love, made John crumble.

Sherlock stepped forward and pulled him into his arms. “You are so much more,” he whispered again and again until John began to believe it. 

“Help me?” John wiped his eyes and pulled back. “Please?”

Sherlock stepped into his personal space again and gently placed both hands on John’s cheeks and kissed him. “So much more,” he said again, determined this time. He looked at John until he nodded and then stepped back. “On your knees!”

John wiped his face again and huffed out a laugh. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It says so right here.”

John knelt down, being presented with a lovely view of Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to bring his towel back into the bedroom with him. He read out the instructions to him and very soon John wasn’t paying attention to Sherlock’s cock, or his pleasure trail or his defined muscles or the lovebite on his thigh anymore, but he was trying to breathe evenly through the pain of overstretching long misused muscles and scar tissue. It wasn’t long before he was breathless and slightly nauseous from the pain. 

“Okay, enough for today,” he said when he couldn’t take it anymore and sat back on his heels, looking up at Sherlock who looked back with a sympathetic look on his face. 

“I’m sure it’ll get easier with time.”

John couldn’t help but grin at that, but he managed not to make a joke about sex. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock would react, since they hadn’t really talked about his adventurous move earlier. “Could you get me some water and a painkiller?”

“You drank two beers,” Sherlock argued. 

“I’m fairly sure that I’m good,” John countered and held out a hand, which Sherlock took to pull him to his feet. 

“If you say so?” Sherlock waited until John had sat down on the bed and started to put his pyjamas on before he left him again. 

Sherlock came back with a large glass of water and a pack of pills. He popped one of the pills out of the plastic wrapper and pressed it against John’s lips. John sucked Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth and swallowed around his thumb and index finger. Wide eyed, Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled back, setting the glass of water against John’s lips instead. John dutifully drank half of it but made sure that some drops escaped and fell from his chin onto his chest and the ran lower. Sherlock’s eyes were dark when he set down the glass and the rest of the pills on the night stand. 

“You’ve started packing?” he eventually said, obviously unwilling to address the issue further. 

“Want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“You don’t like it here?” Sherlock teased and put his pyjama bottoms on. 

“Oh, you know I love it. But to have you all to myself, with nobody else around? Only trees and mountains and the wind.”

“You’re a romantic, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock said with a smile and John chuckled. 

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock gave him a self-satisfied look in return. 

“Wait, do you have a weird middle name?”

“I’m not telling you anything more about my name. I think we’re fairly even.”

John grinned and crawled onto the bed, grunting when his shoulder signalled him that he had moved around enough for the day. “It would be very funny if you had an entirely ordinary middle name,” he smiled and kicked the sheets out from under his body. When Sherlock didn’t reply, he turned to look at him. 

“Oh, what? Come on, tell me! Am I right? Please, I need to know!”

Sherlock sniffed and went to turn off the lights. “Shut up,” he said when John still looked at him excitedly once he had climbed into bed. 

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“Please, Sherlock, please!”

“No.”

“Oh god, is it Arthur?” 

“Shut up.”

“Is it Benjamin?”

Sherlock glared at him and John giggled. “Is it Bert? Dorian?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.”

“Christian?”

Sherlock pressed his lips closed and John pulled the sheet up to his chin. “Joseph. Kevin!” John started laughing and Sherlock’s expression became less annoyed. “Nigel,” he giggled and reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. “Bartholomew.”

Sherlock’s lips trembled with the need to smile. 

“Boris.” John laughed again and tugged on his arm. “Michael.”

“I’m not telling you,” Sherlock said, but his voice betrayed his amusement and he finally turned onto his side and moved closer to John. 

“Merlin.”

That had Sherlock laughing. “My parents might have been creative, but they weren’t that insane.”

“So I’m not wrong with ordinary.”

“Well, if you consider Sherlock and Mycroft ordinary …”

“Tom.”

“Shh.”

“Stephen.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Sherlock Stephen Holmes,” John said quietly, “has a nice ring to it.”

“Go to sleep, John.”

“I can’t. I’m much too excited about this,” he yawned and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Evelyn,” John tried, turning onto his side and letting Sherlock move closer and snuggle against his back. 

“Sean.”

Sherlock laughed silently, but John could feel it against his back.

“Walter.”

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmured against his neck and John stopped talking. He pulled Sherlock’s arms closer around himself and inhaled deeply. “I love you,” he eventually whispered into darkness and Sherlock kissed his shoulder and then settled down to sleep. For a few minutes, John fought to stay awake. The day had been incredibly long and emotionally draining. It was the second day in a row in which he had felt that things had been out of his control and he wanted to change that. He wanted to have stability, so he could share that with Sherlock. Maybe having him on the team permanently wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. 

It was still dark when he opened his eyes again. He was alone in bed and for a moment he felt disoriented. The bathroom was dark, too, so he wasn’t in there for a quick pee. “Sherlock?” he asked, clearing his throat to repeat the word, louder this time. 

A few seconds later he heard steps and the door to the hallway opened and Sherlock stuck his head in. For a second he looked worried, but then he found that John wasn’t agitated or scared and he relaxed. “You should be asleep,” he said quietly. 

“You should be in bed,” John said, stretching carefully.

“I know. I just … I’ll be right there.”

“Are you working?” John knew it was true before Sherlock answered him.

“Just going through some results.”

“Do you do that often, in the middle of the night?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you need to be alone?” John felt strange asking the question. He wasn't sure he really wanted to hear the answer.

“I did not want to wake you up.”

“If you need to do this, don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ll be right there,” Sherlock simply repeated and John nodded, feeling slightly alarmed by Sherlock’s evasion of what he was really doing. 

“Okay, I’ll be right here. You’re allowed to wake me up when you come back.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Ten minutes. Just enough time for you to fall asleep again.”

John grinned and blew him a kiss. “See you in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock whispered and disappeared from the door. John lay awake for a while, wondering why he felt so strange about finding Sherlock gone in the middle of the night. Then he remembered Mrs Hudson’s words. He had been awake all night before, pacing the length of the living room. Mrs Hudson guessed he had been preoccupied with him, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe this sacrifice was what made him the great driver he was. If he was up now, thinking about the race that lay ahead, it meant that he followed his instinct and did his work when his brain dictated him to. It was silly to suspect anything else. 

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he wanted to wait for Sherlock to come back to bed. When he did, he was surprised to see John sit back against the headboard. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You didn’t have to stay awake.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

“Can you hold me?”

Sherlock’s request confused him, but it also felt exactly right.

“Yes, come here.”

Sherlock crawled under the sheets and John curled around him, pressing his face against Sherlock’s curls for a moment. 

“I know. It’s Valentine,” John kissed the words against the skin on Sherlock’s neck and he laughed quietly. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Clark.”

“Go to sleep.”

“Christopher.”

Sherlock pushed back against his body. He didn’t say anything. 

“Archimedes.”

He yawned against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Spoilsport.”

“Sore loser,” Sherlock countered, the grin apparent in his voice.

“Ha, you think it ends here,” John tried to attach even more skin to Sherlock than he already had. “It’s going to be a long way to Scotland.”

He fell asleep with a grin, imagining them both in the car, annoyed and wanting each other. The thought stayed with him and became more colourful when he found Sherlock squirming against him in the morning. He woke up with a gasp, immediately pushing his hips against Sherlock’s arse. 

“Morning,” he murmured and slipped his hand down Sherlock’s front. He found that Sherlock was already ahead of him and pushed his hand out of the way. “Let me.”

Sherlock moaned quietly and pressed back again. John loved the friction, but he wanted more than just heat and cotton between their bodies. Grunting when his shoulder protested, John quickly pushed down his pyjama bottoms and then tugged at Sherlock’s. He pressed his cock between Sherlock’s thighs, grinning when Sherlock squirmed again. John reached around Sherlock so he could pull his testicles forward, making more room for himself. 

Sherlock lay still for a moment and John chuckled. “It’s not the same as fucking you, but close enough,” John murmured against his shoulder and then he took Sherlock’s hand and guided it down to hold himself while John began stroking him. After a few seconds, Sherlock shuddered and John started moving behind him. 

“Lube,” he whispered, and Sherlock stretched out his free arm and produced the bottle from the night stand. John let go of him for a moment to spread it out on his own and Sherlock’s cock before he dropped the bottle on the bed and returned to his former position. 

“This is indecent,” Sherlock said, but there was amused approval in his voice, not doubt, as John had expected. 

John found it impossible to stay calm. When Sherlock pressed his thighs together harder, he pressed his forehead against his shoulder and began moving faster. A few moments later he couldn’t continue to stroke Sherlock and instead grabbed his hip to be able to control his movement better. It was too similar to making love to him, too close to the real thing, and John simply couldn’t hold himself back. He began pounding and Sherlock grabbed his hip, encouraging him to go ever faster. John’s cock kept pushing against Sherlock’s perinnium and his testicles and it was enough to make Sherlock grunt with pleasure at every thrust. 

“Fuck,” John moaned breathlessly. 

“Wait,” Sherlock said suddenly and John stopped, panting and slightly alarmed by just how turned on he was. “Let me just …,” Sherlock rolled around onto his stomach and John found himself on top of him, pushing him into the mattress by his shoulders while he pounded into him. Sherlock crossed his ankles to tighten the space between his legs even further and John managed a few more trusts before he came, pressing is hips against Sherlock’s arse, overwhelmed by the illusion that he was inside him. 

He blinked hard, trying to concentrate on the quick rising and falling of Sherlock’s back with his breath. He wasn’t sure that he was done coming, and he was afraid to move, suddenly ashamed of his own abandon. 

Finally, Sherlock turned his head to try and look at him. “John. John. I need to … please …,” John stared for a moment before he understood what Sherlock was saying. He inhaled deeply and pulled back, rolling off Sherlock to lie next to him. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, wanting badly to reach out and touch Sherlock, but unable to do it without any clear invitation. 

“Oh,” Sherlock huffed. “You don’t get to apologise for that!” He pushed himself up until he knelt on the bed, arse up in the air without a trace of shame. He rested his head on his left arm, still on the cushion next to John’s and reached between his legs with his right, stroking himself with as much self-control as he could muster. John's come glistened on his thighs.

John stared at his face. Sherlock seemed entirely content with what had just happened and John felt a burning sensation take hold of his heart. He reached out to clasp Sherlock’s hand in his and kissed the tips of his fingers while Sherlock began bucking up, his eyes fluttering closed just to be forced open again. John watched, mesmerised by the serene look on Sherlock’s face. 

John knew that it wouldn’t take him long to come, but Sherlock seemed to draw it out purposefully. 

Finally, Sherlock grunted and bit down on his own arm, closing his eyes against the pleasure. He tipped over the edge without altering his position, stroking himself through his orgasm while his come wet the sheets below him. 

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Sherlock eventually lay down again, avoiding the wet spot on the bed, his fingers still intertwined with John’s. 

It was Sherlock’s alarm which shocked them both into activity. Sherlock reached out for his phone, effectively draping himself across John’s chest. He turned the alarm off but remained where he was while John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, kissing every inch of skin he could teach. When he bit a nipple, Sherlock laughed and pulled back, realigning his own body with John’s. 

“That was filthy,” he said happily and John smiled. “And very very good,” Sherlock made sure that John understood how he felt about it. 

“I’m glad that you think so.”

“I just wish I could have seen your face.”

“Why?”

Sherlock pushed the palm of his hand against his soft cock and shuddered. “Because it would have been new.”

“So this is okay for you? Not too fast? Too crazy? Too … weird?”

“No, strangely enough it was really rather fantastic.”

“Good.”

“You have doubts?” Sherlock noticed and John wondered if anything ever passed by Sherlock. 

“I just don’t want you to think that you have to do anything crazy just to satisfy me.”

“Well, I didn’t really do … anything.”

John rolled his eyes. “You pretty much made sure that I had the best orgasm in years.”

“Oh, was it?”

“I’m not sure it’s over yet.”

Sherlock looked down John’s body and grinned. Then he reached between his own legs and brought his hand up. “Shower?”

“Give me a minute?”

“Okay?”

“I don’t think I can walk yet.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose very high. “What do you mean?”

John chuckled. “Remember when you pretended that you couldn’t feel your legs?”

“I do hope that you can feel your legs,” Sherlock sounded truly worried. 

“Just shaking.”

Sherlock reached out a hand to place on John’s knee and his eyes widened a bit. 

“If I tried to walk now I would fall flat on my face.”

“Okay?” 

“I know that you are now debating whether it’s worth testing the hypothesis, but I do need another minute.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he pushed himself up and climbed off the bed. Then he grabbed John’s hands and pulled him up. John wanted to protest, but let himself be manhandled off the bed. It was only when Sherlock picked him up that he tried working with him, and half dragging, half carrying, Sherlock managed to get him into the bathroom and the bathtub. John was sure that his legs would definitely support him now, but he enjoyed Sherlock’s commitment to get him into the shower so they could both be in it together rather than just let John wait it out. 

Sherlock pulled the shower curtain closed and turned on the water. “Come on. You made me filthy, now you need to help clean me up,” and he turned and pushed out his arse. John chuckled and did as he was told.


	47. Chapter Forty-Seven

They had a quick breakfast and John packed a few snacks for the road while Sherlock went downstairs to talk to Mrs Hudson. John wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but Sherlock didn’t seem particularly bothered by the prospect of going downstairs, so he decided to not think about it too much. Instead, he put his bag next to the door and made himself another cup of tea while he checked his emails on his phone. 

Sherlock was gone for a while, but he returned with a large box and a few full paper bags. “So we won’t go hungry,” he explained, mimicking the tone of Mrs Hudson’s voice and John chuckled. 

“That’s very kind.”

“I suppose it is,” Sherlock said and stole John’s mug, drinking the rest of his tea. Then he disappeared in his bedroom and returned with the sheets and pillow cases which he dropped unceremoniously on his couch only to walk right back to where he had come from. John followed him and found him in front of his wardrobe, flicking through shirts. 

“Bring a t-shirt,” John said. “We’re going on holiday.”

“Do you think?”

“Anything comfortable?”

Sherlock looked at John over his shoulder and grinned. “Do you suppose we’ll be naked a lot?”

John giggled and shrugged. “I suppose we might be. But if you want to take those walks, I guess you should wear at least a bare minimum of acceptable clothes.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock considered this and selected a few shirts which he put into a clothes bag. “Hold this,” he draped it across John’s arm and then continued to throw socks, underwear and t-shirts at his own bag, missing a few times. John shook his head with a fond smile.

“Are you a bit nervous?”

Sherlock didn’t turn around. “What makes you think that?”

“You just seem to be?”

Sherlock shrugged and went to pick up his dropped clothes to put them in the bag. “I have never been up there with anyone that wasn’t my immediate family.”

“Sherlock, if you don’t want me to come …”

“No. I do. I do want you to come. I just don’t … it’s not easy letting you in.”

John swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to respond.

Sherlock looked at his face, and his conflicted expression told John that he had noticed his confusion. He turned away from him, clearly needing some space. John was about to leave the room when Sherlock started talking. “I suppose it is because I always knew that I could only rely on myself. On Mycroft … to an extent. But it’s not easy with him. And suddenly I want to share it all with you. But it is difficult, because I never felt like that before. I certainly never wanted to share anything with him, quite the opposite, in fact. I was happy about every aspect of my life that wasn’t controlled by him, that was mine. And then you came along,” he finally turned around and his eyes settled on John's face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want you. I want you very, very much,” he said nervously and John stepped closer, feeling that he was allowed now. “I want you to have everything.”

John gently pulled him into his arms. “I have everything,” he whispered and kissed him. Sherlock held him tightly and finally inhaled deeply. “Okay, let’s do this.”

They packed the car and John took them around to the petrol station before they headed towards the north of the city. He turned on the radio and for an hour they just listened to random charts music before Sherlock finally started fumbling with the tuner until he found a classical music station. John watched his hand on the radio and felt his cheeks grow hot, thinking about where that hand had been last night. 

“John, we’ve not even left greater London.”

“I am sorry. You’re just distracting, that’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

John looked at Sherlock, surprised by his offer to talk. “About what?”

“About the fact that you clearly want to go further?”

John pressed his back into his seat and tried to keep his hands from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. “Umm. I’d love to, yes. I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t.”

“I’m starting to understand why,” Sherlock said, his hands resting relaxed on his thighs. 

“Yeah?”

“Pressure and friction, I suppose.” Sherlock looked away from John, studying the field they were passing.

“You suppose.”

“You were alright with one finger, and I am, too, but that is nothing compared to a penis.”

John laughed out loud and Sherlock frowned at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m just not used to … I don’t know. It’s strange talking about this with you.”

“Strange?”

“It’s good. But you seem so … you’re just so …”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John wondered whether he would have to stop the car to continue this conversation.

“You seem so technical sometimes, and you speak so well, it’s just a bit funny that you’d be so specific about sex, too.”

“What do you want me to say? Cock? Dick? Dong?”

John laughed again and shook his head. “No, please don’t. I’m sorry. Please use your own words.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked. “Well, I imagine it must be quite tight.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Tighter than what I offered you this morning.”

“A bit.”

“Oh, come on, John, be honest with me.”

“A lot, yeah.”

“Okay.”

“But really good. Really, really good.”

“So it’s not all about that.”

“No.”

“Tell me?”

John switched to the left lane and slowed down the car. “It’s about being with someone. Being as close as you can get.”

“But I didn’t see you.”

“There are ways, of course.”

“So I could see your face?”

“Yes, definitely. There are quite a few options.”

“I have been thinking about that,” Sherlock admitted and John watched his hands curl around his thighs. “I think I do want to try, at some point.”

John swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the road. “Yeah, good. Umm, I mean. Anytime you want to do anything, try anything, just let me know.”

“I will,” Sherlock nodded and relaxed his hands again. John stared ahead, trying to suppress images of Sherlock writhing beneath him. 

Another half hour passed with both of them pretending to listen to the radio before John felt it impossible to keep on driving. He took them to a service station and parked at the very end of the car park. For a few seconds, they sat quietly next to each other before Sherlock turned to John and attacked him with a ferocious kiss. John pushed back and let his hand drop to Sherlock’s crotch, gasping at the heat he felt through his trousers. “You’re killing me,” he whispered and undid Sherlock’s button and zipper. “We can’t do this here, we’ll get arrested,” he murmured against Sherlock’s mouth while Sherlock arched up into his touch, moaning quietly. 

“Be quick then,” he answered while his hand slipped under the collar of John’s shirt and stroked down his back. 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this!” John moaned and leaned down to take him into his mouth. It took Sherlock only two minutes to come and John was very well aware that any moment now, someone could find them out. He kept his head down until he was sure Sherlock was done coming, cursing the gear shaft which pressed against his ribs uncomfortably, before he pulled away and wiped his mouth. Sherlock looked gleeful.

“Look busy,” he told John before he leaned down to reciprocate, his cock still out of his trousers. John closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his forehead. He was close, but he was also intensely aware of their surroundings. For a few moments he fought with himself before he lowered his hands to Sherlock’s head and buried them in his hair while looking around, half panicked, half blissful, checking if anyone was approaching them. 

He saw a young couple point at the car and he cursed loudly. John prayed that they were just interested in it because it was a vintage sports car and even while John willed them to go away they began walking directly towards him. “Fuck, fuck, Sherlock, stop. Please stop.”

Sherlock sat up quickly, his mouth wet and his hair a mess. John grunted as he tucked himself away and finally laid hands on Sherlock as well, who seemed to have forgotten in what state of undress he was. “Get out of the car,” he ordered and Sherlock did as he was told. “Get me some water or something. Anything.”

Sherlock smirked and stalked away, avoiding the couple which followed him with their eyes until he disappeared in the service station before walking up to the car. John cursed again, knowing that he looked a mess and that the car smelled of sex now. He leaned over to roll down Sherlock’s window, hoping that he could get some fresh air in before they approached him. 

“Hello mate.” The man walked around the car to speak to John through the open window. “I couldn’t help but notice your car. She’s a real beauty. I haven’t seen anything like her since the eighties.”

“I put her together. Took me quite a while,” John tried his best not to sound like anything was wrong. “Almost a year.”

“Absolutely gorgeous. Do you mind if I take a photo?”

“Oh, no, absolutely not, but let me just get out first.” John grabbed the road atlas and climbed out of the car, holding it in front of his middle as inconspicuously as he could. 

The man started taking pictures with his phone and John stepped even further away. 

“Are you just taking her out for a spin or are you actually going to drive a race with her?”

“Ah, no. I don’t race. I’m going up north with a mate.” 

“A shame, really. I’m sure she’d be incredible on a circuit.”

“Possibly. I’m pretty happy with how she runs on the streets.”

“You do this for a living or just as a hobby,” the woman piped up just when John saw Sherlock walk back towards them from the corner of his eye. “Bit of both, actually. I’m a mechanic and I do a bit of engineering, but she’s my project. I don’t get to build cars like that every day.”

The women nudged her partner. “Come on, ask him!”

“Ask what?” John felt his ears burn. 

“Would you consider ever fixing up a car for me? I’ve always dreamed of having a working old timer.”

John stared at him, eyes wide. “Umm, wow. I don’t … I never considered …” 

“Money wouldn’t be an issue. I have been saving up and already own a few run down models and I … well, when I saw your car I thought it might just be my lucky day. I wanted to ask who’s kept her in that state, but there you go.”

Sherlock had almost reached them and John only noticed then that he wore a base cap and sunglasses. He dragged his eyes away from him again and nodded. “Well, I’m very busy over the summer, but I tell you what. Give me your details and I will get back to you when I have the time?”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” The man reached out a hand and John awkwardly shifted the atlas to his left, even though he was fairly sure that he wasn’t showing anymore at this point, and shook it.

Then he handed John his card. “I’m James Hayter, and this is my fiancé, Sarah. Thankfully, she’s supporting me in my strange ventures.”

John smiled and shook her hand too. “He’s a lucky man,” John said and pocketed the card. “Listen, we have to move on, but it was lovely meeting you. And I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock didn’t say a word and simply sat down in the car while John said his good byes. He was handed a bottle of water when he sat down in the driver’s seat. “Well, that was awkward,” John grinned at him and flicked the base cap off his head. 

“Hey, don’t compromise my disguise,” Sherlock complained and grabbed the atlas from John’s crotch. “I could have finished you if you hadn’t been so scared of being caught.”

“Oh yeah, because I would risk that rather than make sure that we actually get to Scotland without being arrested.” He could feel himself stirring again and he cursed his body’s betrayal quietly. 

“It was kind of you to start with me,” Sherlock grinned and put the base cap back on. “Come on, get us out of here!”

John steered the car back onto the motorway and turned up the music to drown out his own frustration. Sherlock tucked up his knees to his body and watched John drive, his head resting on his arms which he had crossed above his knees. “Your self control amazes me,” he finally said once one piece ended on the radio and the next one was introduced. 

“Sherlock, we don’t even know whether they saw anything.”

“There might have been security cameras as well.”

“Oh fuck, why are you telling me this?”

“I texted Mycroft to take care of it.”

John almost let go of the steering wheel. “You did what? Is Mycroft in the mafia or something? A freemason? A secret agent?” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Erm, all of the above? He’s powerful. He has a lot of say in matters of national security.”

“And deleting a tape of me giving you a blowjob falls into that category?”

“Not really, no. But he wants to shield me from the evils of the world while he’ll have to watch you doing that to me. So it’s a win-win situation.”

“You’re a bit insane.”

“He wanted to keep you away from me, and I’m just proving a point.”

“That you like to piss him off and that I’m a risk factor in your life?”

“That I want you. And that you want me.” He smiled at John, who reached out a hand to push the cap off his head and to ruffle his hair and gently tap the back of his head. 

“Yeah, absolutely mad, that’s what you are. So, here’s the deal. No touching until we have reached our destination.”

“You’re touching me right now.”

“No touching of cocks, then.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to …?”

“Didn’t you just praise my patience?” 

“Your self control.”

“Well, there you go. Now stop being cute and let me drive.”

Sherlock smirked, pulled on his seat belt for more room and leaned over to press a kiss to John’s cheek. “Can I _talk_ about sex?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m telling you not to talk about sex. It’s distracting and while I appreciate that you have managed to make me drive this far without even getting close to a panic attack, I don’t think being constantly hard for you will do me any good either.”

“I said I could finish you.”

“Let’s talk about something else, please? Or just ... you know, don't talk?”

“Fine,” Sherlock began fiddling with the radio again. When he found another classical music station he leaned back in his seat, sighed contentedly and closed his eyes when a solemn voice announced Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor. John looked at him from the corner of his eyes. Sherlock looked positively delighted by the sound of the orchestra and John found himself listening to a single violin playing against the backdrop of what he figured was quite a large orchestra. 

John thought back to his days in school orchestra when he had tried to play the clarinet for better or worse. Watching Sherlock’s hands twitch ever so lightly to the sound of the violin made him itch to ask Sherlock whether he had played an instrument, too. He must have, he figured, growing up in what he imagined to be a very posh home. 

But instead of talking over the music, he kept on watching him and the road in turn and after a while he finally felt himself relax. There was no sexual tension, no stress, no fear and no pain forcing him to sit straighter than he normally would and he loved it. The music ranged from playful and quick to slow and thoughtful and it was music that John would have never felt fit in a car, but it did. Just then it was perfect. 

He smiled widely, dropping his elbows, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel, and sighed contentedly. The next time he looked at Sherlock, he found himself being watched. The piece was in its final bars and Sherlock looked just as contented as John felt.


	48. Chapter Forty-Eight

Neither of them spoke, but John knew that Sherlock knew what he was thinking. He turned up the music a bit and then rested his left hand on Sherlock’s thigh, where it remained until he decided that he needed a break. When John parked the car at yet another service, they looked at each other, daring one another to not give in to the urge to share a kiss, or more. Sherlock finally broke down and leaned in, pressing a soft and gentle kiss to John’s lips. 

“We should go to the shop,” Sherlock then decided and got out of the car. John followed him to the building at the centre of the car park and chuckled when Sherlock walked straight into the Waitrose and stopped in front of the pharmacy section. Then he turned to John and shrugged. “Which ones do you recommend?”

John blushed as Sherlock had spoken quite loudly, and he cursed himself, because blushing while standing next to Sherlock in front of an assortment of condoms was as conspicuous as it could get. 

“John!” Sherlock urged and randomly grabbed a pack. “Help?”

“Could we maybe go to a local pharmacy or something and not do this there?” he tried not to whisper, but his voice wouldn’t quite work. He blushed more deeply. 

“No, I want to buy them now so I can stop thinking about them.”

“You were thinking of condoms this whole time?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not only, obviously. But it’s a logical next step, no?”

John exhaled slowly and turned to look around himself to check whether they were alone. “Those are regular, slightly lubricated, no oil, work with water based lube. Those supposedly taste like fruit, which is frankly disgusting. Those are …” 

Sherlock grabbed one pack of the regular Durex condoms and began reading the descriptions. “So you recommend these?”

“Of the available options, yes.”

“Good, okay.” He walked away and left John staring at the condoms with wide eyes. Eventually he shook himself out of his slightly shocked state and began picking up random bags of sweets and snacks which he carried over to where Sherlock was waiting in line at the till. John dropped all of his bags on top of the small box in order to make it less obvious while Sherlock looked at him with a strange expression which, in turn, made John blush even more furiously. 

Finding it impossible to face the man behind the till, John pressed some money into Sherlock’s hand and walked out in search of the toilets. Once more, he ended up staring at his reflection while letting cold water run over his wrists and hands. 

Two minutes later Sherlock came in and watched John through the mirror. John turned off the tap and turned around, running his wet hands through his hair. 

“Sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

They had spoken at the same time and John huffed out a laugh. “I never … I’m not usually like this.”

“I’m sorry, I should have asked you first. Or stopped when you obviously did not want to do that.”

“No, Sherlock. I do. I did. I wanted to get condoms, but I wanted to … do it in a less public place.”

“Where we’re going, everybody knows everyone. And they know me.”

John bit his lip. He hadn’t thought of that. “I made it much worse than it could have been.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Well …”

“Sorry.”

“I told the cashier that we need them for a party.”

“Sherlock, that is even worse. He must have known what we are up to.”

Sherlock grinned now and held up the bag. “I put your random choice of snacks back.”

John frowned as the bag in Sherlock’s hand definitely held more than the small box of condoms. 

“I asked him which ones he thinks would work best if you blew them up to use them as balloons in a prank during a stag night.”

John blinked at Sherlock, stupefied. “You did what?”

“ _Your_ stag night, by the way. I almost regretted saying that, because he wouldn’t stop laughing. He said that you are obviously scared of condoms and that it’s a brilliant plan, but that you’ll start warming to the idea of condoms after the third child.”

John exhaled slowly and pointed at the bag. “So?”

“I got one box of each. You weren’t comfortable to talk me though them all and I did not want to read them all either, so now I bought them all.”

John cocked his head, disbelief and amusement fighting for dominance within him. “You’re a bloody genius, do you know that?” He laughed and crossed the small room to pull Sherlock down into a furious kiss. The opening of the door drove them apart and Sherlock turned to go and use the toilet while John left the building as quickly as he could without running. 

He waited for Sherlock in the car and checked the road atlas for their whereabouts. They had just passed Leeds and would be in Scotland within an hour. It seemed almost a miracle that he had managed to drive that far without his shoulder distracting him to a point where he couldn’t continue. And even more miraculously, driving didn’t scare him anymore. 

The right door opened and Sherlock stepped back, holding it open. “I’ll drive.”

“Says who?”

“The man who is planning your stag do.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you are ridiculously attractive when you blush.”

John made a face and got up, standing much closer to Sherlock than he should. Sherlock leaned down a bit until their lips almost touched. “I am, in fact, a bit jealous of your girlfriend,” Sherlock murmured. “She left you with that love bite that everyone notices immediately.”

John found himself covering the mark on his neck with the palm of his hand before he could stop himself. 

“The way you just acted in there ... nobody would ever guess that you like to order her around a bit.” Sherlock’s breath tickled John’s lips and he moaned involuntarily. 

“Did you really just buy fruit flavoured condoms?” John countered, pulling himself together, not willing to let Sherlock win this game, again.

“I might like them.” Sherlock argued, but he straightened up and let John walk around the car. 

“Might, yes. Possibly. They’re not mousse au chocolat flavoured, though.”

“I’m starting to see why the notion of food-related tasting condoms might be problematic,” Sherlock conceded when he considered that thought. 

He sat down in the driver’s seat, started the car and steered it out onto the motorway. “I also told the man in the restrooms that you were trying to start a fight with me.”

John giggled. “You are a bad man, Mr. Holmes.”

“White lies don’t count.”

John snorted. “I never expected you to be an expert in bollocking your way out of tight spots.”

“Am I supposed to read sexual innuendo into that remark?”

John giggled and gently punched his shoulder. “God, if people knew how you really are!”

Sherlock tensed and looked at him with a slight frown. Any trace of humour in his expression was gone. “What if they did?”

John reached out to touch his cheek and gently flick his ear lobe. “They’d all love you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, but John could see the sad smile he tried to hide. “No,” he finally argued. “They wouldn’t. None of them are as patient as you are. None of them see me how you do. None of them are willing to give me the space I need to be myself.”

“I do?” John hadn’t really thought about that aspect of their relationship at all. It didn’t feel like giving him space, it felt more like constantly trying to establish a shared space when he felt drawn to him at all times. 

Sherlock caught John’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You do,” he said quietly and let go of his hand. 

John thought about that while they slowly edged closer to their goal. They stopped for food after they had crossed the border and John decided to let Sherlock drive for as long as he wanted to. He felt entirely safe with him and even though the automatic movement of Sherlock’s driving reminded him of the much quicker reactions which he needed to steer a Formula One car, John did not feel any of the foreshadowing signs of a panic attack. 

Instead, he took turns in watching Sherlock and the landscape. The sun slowly moved towards the west and when he looked at Sherlock, the sun caught in his eye lashes and his hair seemed almost copper. After marvelling at how gorgeous Sherlock looked like this, he finally decided to be bold and took a photo of him with his phone. Sherlock turned his head to look at him for a moment before he returned his gaze to the road ahead without a comment. However, John could see the dimple on his cheek deepening. 

John watched the landscape change and once they were north of Edinburgh, he asked Sherlock to stop the car. It was much colder than in the south and John rubbed his arms for warmth when he looked down on Edinburgh and the sea from their little parking spot. The sun was now sporadically hidden by fast moving clouds. He turned around to look at Sherlock, who watched him quietly. “This is beautiful,” John said happily. “I’m so glad we came.”

“We’re not there yet.”

“But almost,” John smiled and reached out his hand. There was some traffic, but where he stood he was almost hidden from the road. Sherlock stepped closer and John wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face against his chest. 

Sherlock kissed to the top of John’s head and wrapped him up in an embrace which warmed John both inside and out. “Thanks for buying condoms,” he murmured against Sherlock’s chest. “But I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

“What happened to the no sex talk rule?” Sherlock said amused.

“You broke that rule when you asked me about my opinion on condoms.”

“To be fair, it could have been a question about which ones work best if you blow them up to make a friend uncomfortable.”

“Please tell me that this is not the reason you wanted to buy condoms?” John nipped at a wind-hardened nipple though Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock squirmed. 

“I will not dignify that question with an answer,” he eventually murmured and ran his fingernails along the nape of John’s neck. John moaned quietly against Sherlock’s shirt and hugged him tighter. “Come on,” Sherlock nudged him, “let’s go so we’ll get there before the sun sets.”

Reluctantly, John let go of him and, taking in the view for another moment, he followed Sherlock back to the car. “About an hour to go,” Sherlock said and John felt excitement burn in his stomach. Until now he had felt excited, nervous and turned on, sitting so close to Sherlock for hours, but he hadn’t really thought about the estate. He would get to know so much more about Sherlock than he knew now and it filled him with a profound longing that almost scared him. 

Sherlock did not ask for directions once, even though John offered to check on his phone or the atlas. Then he remembered that Sherlock easily memorised every turn, corner and straight of any racetrack he’d ever seen and felt a bit silly for even asking him. 

Just when the sun began to set, they reached a small village, nestled between a hill and a clear river, the houses already dipped in shadow while the heather on the hills gleamed purple and orange in the evening light. 

After passing through the village, Sherlock left the main road and drove down a path which led them along a smaller arm of the stream until it widened into a loch and John felt his heart in his throat. Five minutes later, Sherlock took a right and parked the car in front of a rough stone building. It looked more like a cottage than an estate, but when John got out of the car, he realised that it was only the first of several buildings which were initially hidden from sight. 

“Sherlock, is this where you grew up?” He turned around and saw that Sherlock stood close to the car, watching with him a slightly worried expression on his face. He nodded. “The summers, at least, were spent here.”

“You have a lake,” John said, laughing at how incredulous he sounded. 

“Well, the loch isn’t ours. Part of the shore is, yes.”

“Let’s take a dip.”

Sherlock smiled and finally stepped away from the car. “Tomorrow, maybe? We’ll have to get our luggage inside and start a fire. I don’t think you’ll want to freeze to death on your first night here and the water is rarely warmer than just above freezing point.”

John inhaled deeply and looked up at the slowly darkening sky. Then he helped Sherlock unpack the car. Sherlock unlocked the front door and walked straight down a very dark corridor. There was no light switch anywhere near the door and when he saw a match being lit a few feet away from him, he realised that the house possibly did not have electrical light. “The main house is connected, but this one isn’t, except for the alarm,” Sherlock explained and returned with an old fashioned oil lamp. “Give me a moment.” He disappeared up a set of creaking stairs and John felt as if he had stepped back in time.


	49. Chapter Forty-Nine

The house smelled of wood, bee’s wax and lavender. John immediately fell in love with the smell. 

Sherlock returned with another light which he put on a small table in the middle of the corridor. Then he picked up his bag and told John to follow him through the house. “I’ll show you everything tomorrow, when there’s daylight.”

“What did you do upstairs?”

“It's the only room hooked up to the circuit, along with the door here. I switched off the security system of the estate,” Sherlock explained and opened an old heavy looking door at the end of the corridor. Behind the door was another one, made out of glass, leading into a winter garden which connected the cottage with the main house. All the flowerpots were empty and a stack of chairs was covered by a large plastic sheet. John imagined sitting out here, having tea while the afternoon light warmed the room enough to allow for bare feet on the stone floor. 

Sherlock went to unlock the door to the main house, which had three storeys that John could see, and probably a cellar. The mansion had definitely been built at least three centuries after the cottage. John fought the urge to take off his shoes when he entered the house. Again he felt like stepping back in time, but this time it was the nineteenth century. The furniture he saw reminded him of an exhibition he had once seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum and the walls were covered in large paintings of the Highlands while important looking men seemed to watch them with an air of distaste from their frames. 

“Don’t mind them. My uncle was a keen collector and made my parents keep them.” 

“Please tell me that instead of baby photos, you have baby portraits.”

Sherlock chuckled and walked on, switching the lights on as he went. The house seemed larger than it actually was, but apart from the paintings and furniture, it held nothing personal which spoke of its owners. 

Sherlock took him down half a flight of stairs and through a door into a large kitchen. He dropped his bag on the table and walked up to a cupboard, which held a complicated looking box full of buttons and little lights. Sherlock pressed a few and John could feel the house coming to life. For once, John felt entirely inadequate as a mechanic. From what he could see, the box didn't follow any rules of modern technology.

“What just happened?”

Sherlock grinned. “Now we’ll have hot water and electricity beyond just the light. And, as a bonus, whatever gadgets Mycroft has installed for surveillance will be broadcasting white noise.” 

“So you meddled with it?"

"Obviously."

"I want to see your room. You do have your own room, right?”

Sherlock made a face and John stepped closer to him. “If you want to show me, that is. If you don’t want to show me, I suggest we get the rest of our things from the car and …”

Sherlock bit his lip. “And?”

“Blow up some condoms?”

Sherlock laughed and pulled John close. “I will show you my room. And everything else. Though we should get all of our luggage inside so we can start a fire and make supper.”

“Hmm,” John nodded and hooked his thumbs into Sherlock’s waistband. “In a minute.” He kissed Sherlock slowly, basking in the knowledge that they were entirely alone in a place that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time, if only for Sherlock’s presence. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and then wrapped his arms around John, pulling him harder against his own body, deepening the kiss. “I’m glad you’re here,” he finally said and John kissed him again.

“It seems like a bit of a lonely adventure to come up here all by yourself?”

Sherlock shrugged and kissed John again, if only fleetingly. “I enjoy being on my own. Well, normally. Up here, I can really think.”

John nodded and pulled away. “Let’s get our things.”

They made their way back to the car and once John had locked it, Sherlock closed the front door and typed an eight digit code into a very well disguised keypad next to it. 

“Oh, am I a prisoner now?” John joked and Sherlock gave him a crooked grin that made his skin prickle. 

“I might tell you the code. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

Sherlock licked his lips and turned around to walk away. “Wait,” John said. “I want to see this house, too. It seems ancient.”

Sherlock put down the bags with the parcels he had gotten from Mrs Hudson and took the lamp which still burned in the corridor. “Well, I can show you around, though it would make more sense to do it in daylight.” He turned around himself once, illuminating the ancient walls. “Thirteenth century, if the local registry is to be believed. It’s one of the first houses in the area, passed down through the generations until Cromwell’s reign. Some English bloke came up here and decided to level the backyard and put up a house. It burned down and the new one was build a hundred years later. During the nineteenth century, a few more elements were added. I’ll show you tomorrow. The drive-way is relatively new, too. When I was a child, we usually had to walk up here from the main road. Mycroft hated that and once we owned the house, he had the drive-way built. 

John followed Sherlock upstairs. The rooms were tiny as the walls were very thick, but despite the cool temperature, the house wasn’t draughty at all. There was a table with a few dusty newspapers stacked on top of each other, a few books in a shelf next to the door and a cushion in the wide window sill. 

“Yours?” John asked when Sherlock was about to walk into the next room. 

“I’d read while Mr McMurdo read the papers or listened to the radio.”

“Who’s Mr McMurdo?”

Sherlock shrugged and walked on, leaving John to hurry after him as the light went with him. “He used to work here. Sort of a house and green keeper, but mostly my minder, I think. He never tried to make me talk, so I guess he was the only one whose company I would suffer.” 

John stepped behind him and gave him a quick hug, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. “So what’s in here?”

Sherlock held up the lamp and John found that they stood in a fairly comfortable looking sitting room. An ancient couch stood under the two small windows while two leather arm chairs were facing the fireplace. A kettle hook and grill looked as if the fireplace had also been used for cooking. Next to where they stood sat a table with a chess board and two wooden chairs. Sherlock put down the lamp and stared at the dusty board. Then he moved a black rook and took a white pawn off the board, setting it next to the board where a group of pieces were already waiting. 

Then he moved to the final room which was a bedroom. John looked out of the window and smiled. The sky was so clear that the half moon's reflection was mirrored brightly on the surface of the loch. The mountains on the other side of it were just visible in the moonlight and John pressed his face against the cool glass of the window. “This is a dream,” he murmured against it, fogging it with his breath. 

“You like it?” Sherlock had put the light down on the bedside table and joined John by the window. 

“It’s beautiful. I think I finally understand why you come here.”

Sherlock dragged his finger through the condensation John’s breath painted against the glass. “It’s funny, because for you the noise of thousands of people and motors constitutes the best feeling in the world.”

“One doesn’t cancel out the other. And I am always open for new contenders for best feeling in the world. These things can change, you know?”

Sherlock looked at John with a strange expression. His eyes looked silver in the moon light. “I’m only starting to learn that,” he said quietly. 

Just then John’s stomach grumbled and they both chuckled. “Let’s go back to the kitchen and then I’ll show you the main house.”

“Alright,” John took one glance at the room again and wondered whether this was really what Sherlock would consider his room and not whatever room he had occupied in the main house. The feeling was confirmed when Sherlock tucked at the sheet which covered the bed – an entirely familiar and automatic movement. 

Sherlock left the light burning until they reached the winter garden, where he blew it out and closed the door behind them. Once more, John stared at the moon, illuminating the whole glass-walled room and for a moment he imagined making love to Sherlock in the winter garden, with nothing but the moon and the trees and mountains watching them. He shivered and followed Sherlock, who held the door open to him. The smirk on his face told John that Sherlock knew exactly what preoccupied his mind. 

They dropped most of the luggage in the hall and then took the food into the kitchen. Sherlock plugged in the refrigerator and switched on the oven. Mrs Hudson had prepared them a casserole which he unceremoniously stuffed into the oven and then put the kettle on. He had also brought milk, John noted impressed when he poured some into two cups from a metal flask. 

“I was planning on shocking you while I was driving, but I forgot to take it out when I had the chance,” Sherlock admitted with a grin. 

John giggled. “I would have made you walk here,” he said and then put the flask into the fridge while Sherlock popped two tea bags from a jar in a cupboard into the cups. 

“Good thing I didn’t then,” Sherlock grinned and began looking through the other cupboards and the pantry. “We’re going shopping tomorrow. I have to say hello to a few people so they know we are here. If we don’t show ourselves they might come up here to chase away the squatters with golf clubs. I once made that mistake. I still have a scar from that day.”

“Only emotionally,” John countered. “I think I’ve seen all of your scars by now and none of them looked like an injury that you would have acquired by being beaten with a golf club.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip and looked away for a moment. “Yeah, you have,” he murmured and John wondered how long he would have to wait until he could undress him and learn his body all over again. 

The water boiled and Sherlock made their tea while John studied the room. It did not look like a place where a family would sit together and chat and have breakfast together. “Was Mr McMurdo the only help you had?”

Sherlock picked up a cup and held it out to John. “No,” he said at length. “We had a cook and a footman, someone doing the laundry and a few maids, if that is still a term that applies. I never really talked to any of them.”

“But you were here, too?” John pointed at the room. “And in the front house?”

“More than anywhere else, yes. I wasn’t allowed outside alone, so I went to rooms where I would be left alone. My parents and Mycroft never officially entered the kitchen.” He grinned and John immediately remembered what Sherlock had first told him about his brother. 

“You caught your brother?”

“Mycroft bloody Holmes, first born and heir to all of this, stealing cakes from the pantry. First time I ever had the upper hand,” Sherlock smirked. “He made me suffer for it, of course, but he’ll never live it down.”

John grinned and sipped on his tea. It tasted fantastic. “What’s in this?”

Sherlock smiled and drank a bit of his own. “Scottish water.”

“Bloody hell,” John shook his head and sat down at the table, enjoying every last drop of that tea. “That in itself is a reason to move here.”

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before he turned to check on their food and then sat down on the opposite side of the table. “Reason number one why Scots never cease mourning their motherland when they emigrate.”

For a few moments, they just sat there, quietly mulling over their own thoughts. After the initial excitement of coming here, John started feeling tired from the long drive and he stretched his shoulder. “Can you help me again?” he asked Sherlock, who looked momentarily confused, as if he had been miles away and only just now realised that John was talking to him. 

“With your shoulder? Absolutely. But food first. Then physio. Then shower.”

“And then?” John asked, feeling his heartbeat in his throat. He was amazed that he still felt nervous when it came to talking about sex with Sherlock. He rubbed his arms to force away the gooseflesh that spread across his skin.

“Are you cold?” Sherlock ignored John’s question in favour of changing the topic, which only helped to make John even more nervous. 

“A bit,” he admitted and Sherlock had the decency to actually look worried. “I’ll get you a jumper,” he said and was up and out of the kitchen before John could hold him back. He returned with a piece of clothing that definitely had not come out of either of their bags. It was an old college jumper which had the Oxford University Logo unobtrusively stitched on its front. There were a few tiny holes in both cuffs, but apart from them, it was in perfect condition. John pulled it over his head and was immediately aware that it smelled of Sherlock. 

“Did you bring this?”

“No. I keep it here. Can’t wear it down south.”

“Why not?”

“Mycroft teases me for never graduating and the rest of the world thinks I’m a crazy person who crashes cars. They have enough to gossip about."

“What did you study?”

Sherlock smiled. “You know what I read.”

John grinned at Sherlock's wording and lifted one arm up to his face and smelled the fabric. The sleeve did not smell of Sherlock as much as the inside of the jumper had, but he was sure that it wasn’t laundry detergent that he smelled. It smelled metallic and a tiny bit like gasoline. 

“You did not work in a garage or on cars wearing this,” John said incredulously. 

“Well, not whole cars, no. I read engineering, chemistry, too. Art.”

“Solvent,” John said with a smile. “That’s what I smell.”

“Not bad.”

“You’re also fibbing. There is no way on earth that this would still smell like your work a decade later.”

Sherlock grinned. “But I figured it would answer your questions.”

“Why does it smell of you if you didn’t bring it with you?”

“Maybe you’re imagining things?”

John lifted the jumper above his nose and inhaled again. The smell was still there. “No. It smells of you.”

“I was here two weeks ago.”

“Aha, I was right!” John grinned. “What were you doing here? I though you only come up here once in summer.”

“Sometimes I need to get away. Sometimes I need to … disappear.”

“Where do you go when you disappear?”

Sherlock looked surprised, as if he had expected John to say something else. “Not under the table anymore,” he answered after a moment. “Sometimes the roof. Sometimes the hills.”

“If you ever feel the need to disappear, please tell me?”

“I can’t always … control it.”

“Like when you walked out after the qualifying?”

“Yes.”

John nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologise now. Apologise if it happens and I go mad thinking I’ve done something wrong and chased you away.”

Sherlock sat up straight and looked at him with a frown. “Was that what you thought?”

“Well, I didn’t really know what to think.”

“I’m sorry.”

John shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“I haven’t felt like disappearing since you first kissed me,” he said under his breath but John heard every word clearly. “Well, no further than the bathroom, anyway.”

John grinned and got up. He walked around the table and planted a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek before he let go of him again and opened the oven. The food was well done now and Sherlock quickly got them two plates and cutlery while John carried the pan to the table where he placed it on a wooden coaster which Sherlock had produced seemingly out of nowhere. The perfectly timed team work made John’s heart jump.

John felt at ease despite the obvious issues Sherlock had just admitted to having, but he had long since understood that there was a lot of baggage attached to the extraordinary man and he would not become overprotective or irrationally upset about the things he would learn about him. Sherlock hadn’t really asked him much about his own family, and John was glad about it. He definitely did not want to think about his parents or sister, never mind talk about them with Sherlock.

They sat down and ate and John enjoyed the food immensely. After they had eaten, Sherlock made more tea and then dropped the pan and plates in the sink, saying that he’d wash up in the morning, and offered to show John the rest of the house.

The ground level looked more like an old hotel than a home. Various pieces of art that looked worth more than anything John possessed stood in every corner and on every table or chest. Expensive but tasteful furniture was found in every room – from the sitting room to the library to the billiards room, where John eyed the drinks cabinet until Sherlock picked up a key from the top of a shelf and unlocked it. “Pick one.”

John stared at Sherlock. None of the drinks looked a day younger than twenty-five years. Most of them were unopened. “Come on?” 

John shook his head. “You choose.”

Sherlock grinned and took a bottle of thirty-year-old Royal Lochnagar out of the cabinet and pressed it against John’s chest. “You will enjoy this,” he said with a smile and walked on. He showed John the downstairs bathroom and another winter garden, which allowed John to see the stables and a smaller guest house as well as a garden pavilion and a shed. 

“I can’t wait to see all of this in daylight,” John smiled and followed Sherlock up a flight of carpeted stairs. “There’s also a cellar, but I haven’t been down there in years. I’m not sure what is down there.”

“Memories?” John suggested and only realised how close to the mark he had hit when he saw Sherlock press his lips together. “Sorry.”

The second floor held the bedrooms as well as another living room. “All of the bedrooms have become guest rooms, though Mycroft exclusively uses his old bedroom, and I use mine.”

Sherlock opened a door and John caught a glimpse of a polished sign with the initials W S S H. “Wait a minute,” John took a step back to inspect the sign more closely. “You have more than one other name,” he grinned. “And I was right about Stephen!”

“No, you weren’t,” Sherlock smiled and pulled him inside his room. 

“William. It has got to be William,” John said. “Everyone’s first name is William.”

Sherlock sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Fine, yes. My first name is William.”

“So not Stephen?”

“Not Stephen.”

John grinned and turned around himself once. It was obvious that it was Sherlock’s room. There were photographs of old cars on his walls and one cabinet was full of miniature versions of motors. They looked like collector’s items and John wondered why he had not brought them to London with him. His bed was huge and John imagined how tiny Sherlock must have felt as a child in a bed with wooden columns and velvet drapes.

“That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?” John asked and pointed at the bed. 

Sherlock chuckled. “You can imagine that I didn’t sleep here very often.” 

“But you did when you grew up?”

“Yes.”

“Last time you were here?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just making sure that you’re comfortable with the bed,” John said, biting back a grin.

“Oh, do you want to help me feel more at ease here?”

“If you let me?”

John felt the air rush out of him when Sherlock grabbed him and picked him up, only to sit him down on the edge of the bed. Then he kissed him with such ferocity that John dropped back on the bed and wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock kissed him hard and with teeth and John moaned into the kiss, pulling at Sherlock’s shirt. He managed to pull it free from his trousers and pushed it up over his shoulders and finally Sherlock broke the kiss to let John pull it over his head. 

It took him a few seconds to pull it off Sherlock entirely and to free his arms, but when Sherlock’s torso was naked, John pulled him down again, touching as much of his skin as he could reach while continuing the kiss. Only when he grabbed Sherlock’s arse with both hands Sherlock stopped kissing him and dropped his head down, pressing his face against John’s chest. “Fuck!”

“Context?” John asked and Sherlock began laughing. He laughed and laughed and then his breathing changed and be began crying, growing weak on top of John, and soon he had his arms full of an exhausted Sherlock who finally had let go of the tension he had carried around with him since they had left London, and possibly for much longer than that. 

John gently stoked his back with one hand, while the other carded through his hair, drawing small noises of contentment from him. “Should we take a shower and then go to bed?”

Sherlock nodded weakly and finally lifted his head from John’s chest. “I'm sorry, John.”

John gently brushed some tears from his face before he sat up, pushing Sherlock along with him. “Just show me where the bathroom is?”

Sherlock pushed himself up and off the bed and led John outside into the hall again. At the end, he opened a door and switched on the light. John stared for a moment and then turned to Sherlock, who was still wiping away his tears. “Why does nobody live here?” he asked, turning back at the most incredible bathroom he had ever seen. Apart from a huge free-standing bathtub a shower that looked like a small waterfall was installed behind a glass panel. The room itself was cut in half by what John was fairly sure was a sauna. 

“Work?” Sherlock suggested. “Mycroft certainly couldn’t spend more than a weekend here. There’s almost no signal,” he smirked. 

“And you?”

“Not very many racetracks here. And Baker Street is my home. London. I don’t want to live anywhere else.”

John nodded. He understood the sentiment entirely. It wasn’t McLaren that kept him in London. If he wanted an easier life, he would move further south, but after his accident he had felt desperate for noise and company, even if it was by strangers shouting abuse at each other below his window in the middle of the night. It only dawned on him now what an opportunity Sherlock had offered him by letting him stay with him in his flat. 

Before he could voice his thoughts, Sherlock walked over to a cabinet and produced several towels and a soap bar. He put them down next to the shower and began taking off the rest of his clothes. John grinned and did the same. Once they were naked, John realised that he had once more forgotten his exercise and he felt disappointed in himself. Sherlock only had to look at him once to figure out what kept John from stepping into the shower. 

“We’ll do it after, okay? I still remember the instructions, but it’s too cold here now. I’ll warm you up first.” He turned on the shower and held a hand under the water until he was satisfied with the temperature. Then he held out his other hand to John and pulled him into the shower.

For a few minutes, they simply let the hot water run down their bodies. They barely touched, but John enjoyed the heat immensely, only now noticing how cold he had felt after he had let go of Sherlock in his room. 

Sherlock turned off the water and pulled him into an embrace and began washing him, letting the soap glide across his skin, and within minutes both of them were covered in lather and foam. John giggled when he flicked foam from Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock pulled him into a kiss. “I like this,” he said when he pulled back again and John smiled at him happily. 

“You do kiss very well for a man who has not done that before.”

Sherlock snorted and blew a raspberry against John’s neck. "I'm a quick learner, you know? Trial and error and all that."

"I can see why Lestrade likes you." John grinned at Sherlock.

"Well, it helps that you are very responsive," Sherlock murmured against his lips and kissed him again until they were both hard but shivering in the cold of the large unheated bathroom, soap and foam running down their bodies.


	50. Chapter Fifty

Once they began washing away the soap, their hands lingered on each other’s bodies for much longer than necessary. Sherlock held him close, both hands stroking circles against John’s hips and John simply couldn’t keep his hands from wandering down and resting on Sherlock’s buttocks. 

“I suspect an affinity,” Sherlock grinned against John’s lips and let his own hands wander down. Then he pulled hard until John wrapped his arms around his shoulders and Sherlock lifted him up, propping him up against the glass wall of the shower while John wrapped his legs around his hips, and for a second they both felt transported back in time. The cold from the glass at his back made John’s breath hitch and Sherlock stopped kissing him for a moment to make sure that he was not in pain. 

John smiled and Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Should I have kissed you?”

John felt goosebumps rise on his arms and legs. They kept coming back to that moment. “You know that it would have been a terrible idea and I probably would have run away.”

“Maybe I could have made you stay?”

“Maybe. I doubt it, though.”

“I could have just not let you go.”

“I would have made you let me go.”

“I never make the right decisions,” Sherlock said quietly, blinking the water out of his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I did then.”

“Because you didn’t kiss me?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

“Delayed gratification?”

“More like frightened out of my wits.”

John licked his lips. “It would have been a terrible kiss. And the only one we’d have ever had.”

Sherlock chuckled and tipped up his chin. “You just said I’m surprisingly good at kissing.”

John planted a sloppy kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Yeah, but I would have forgotten how to kiss and it would have been a disaster and I would have thought that we are not compatible at all and been turned off and …”

Sherlock snorted. “Keep telling yourself that. You’d still want me, even if I was a terrible kisser.”

John unwrapped his legs from Sherlock’s hips and slowly sank down until he was on his feet again, his back still pressed against the glass while his front was attached head to toe to Sherlock. “You think?”

Sherlock grinned a feral grin and John shivered. He thought of how utterly shy Sherlock had been on the night when he had first kissed him, and to see him now, using his body and soul to keep every nerve ending on John’s body tingling, was amazing. 

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock kissed him again, hungrily now, and John slipped his left hand between their bodies. He tugged at Sherlock’s hardness and Sherlock shuddered, pulling away a bit to give him more room while taking hold of John’s erection. 

They didn’t speak, but they stood with their foreheads pressed together, sharing each breath and moan, until Sherlock grabbed John’s hip to steady himself as he came, a small cry escaping his lips. John watched him, fascinated by the way his eyes seemed out of focus for a moment before he regained his strength and took over. He only needed a few more strokes to bring John to the edge and with a flick of his wrist he tipped him over.

John was glad now for the glass wall at his back and he rested against it for a moment until he was sure his legs had stopped shaking. 

Sherlock picked up the soap and washed away the traces of their orgasms. When he was satisfied that they were both entirely clean, he turned off the water and handed John a towel. It was still fairly cold in the bathroom and now that they didn’t wear shoes anymore John was quick to make his way back to Sherlock’s room. 

Sherlock chuckled and followed, much more slowly than John, carrying their clothes and a dry towel which he put down on a chair. Then he opened a drawer of one of the chests of drawers and threw a pair of woollen socks at John. John chuckled and pulled them on before he continued drying himself. Sherlock turned to the small fire place on the opposite end of the room from the bed and stacked up a small pile of wood which he set alight. 

“Don’t burn yourself,” John warned, and Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t worry. I have lit this fire naked more times than I can count and I’ve never burned any important body parts.”

“You say that as if you have unimportant body parts,” John smiled and went to his bag to fish out his pyjamas. Despite the layer of cotton, he still felt cold and he went to get the Oxford jumper from the chair. Sherlock rose to stop him. 

“You’ll warm up in a moment,” he promised. “On your knees.”

“Way to spoil that phrase forever,” John complained but followed his orders. 

“We could work out some sort of reward system, if that helps?” Sherlock offered with a smirk. 

John went down on his hands and rounded his back, ignoring Sherlock’s incentive, no matter how much he would have loved to discuss the options. He knew that if he’d start thinking about it now, he wouldn’t concentrate on what he had to do. His reward would be a pain free life. He exhaled slowly as he stretched his back beyond the point of comfort. 

Sherlock, in turn, did not mention his offer again but calmly took him through the steps. Soon, John felt his skin prickle and his muscles burn. He closed his eyes against the pain and tried to breathe evenly. He managed a few more stretches than the night before until he stood up and walked over to the window, staring at the reflection of his face. 

“That was better than yesterday,” Sherlock said quietly and held out the fresh towel for John. He took it and wiped his face and neck, less because of sweat and more to feel something else than the burn in his shoulder. “Okay,” he looked at Sherlock, who was still naked, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Bed.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said and John cocked his head. He was sure that after a day of being constantly aroused and coming several times, he would not be up for any kind of sex now, but he wouldn’t mind just looking at Sherlock for a while longer. 

Sherlock plucked the duvet from the bed and spread it out on the floor in front of the fire. “It’s cold in bed and this is the best way to warm it up.”

“By setting it on fire?” John joked, and Sherlock chuckled and took the two pillows from the bed. “By sitting on it by the fire,” he clarified and, picking up the whisky bottle, he sat down naked on the duvet. John chuckled, knowing that tonight he wouldn’t take any painkillers. 

He switched the light off and joined Sherlock on the floor. He had propped up the pillows behind him, so he could lean against them and once John sat down, he pulled him close, wrapping one leg around his hips. 

John stroked his thigh and kissed him along his collar bone. “I really thought you didn’t like to be touched, initially.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock admitted even while he took hold of John’s hand and pulled until he moved beyond his thigh and placed it firmly on his arse. “I didn’t know what I was missing.”

John grinned and kissed his chin. “Do you want to open that bottle?”

“Are you in pain?”

It sounded too light hearted and too teasing to be meant for John to answer earnestly. “Yes, very much so. And in desperate need to drink it away with incredibly expensive whisky.”

Sherlock chuckled and picked up the bottle and sat up, fumbling with the seal. Finally, he pushed it off and uncorked the bottle. “There you go.”

John grinned and took it, but he didn’t drink. Instead, he pushed at Sherlock until he lay on his back. Then he carefully poured some of it out over Sherlock’s chest. When Sherlock inhaled in surprise, some of it ran down his linea alba and caught in his navel. 

“Oops,” John said with a grin and carefully placed the bottle an arm-length away from him. Then he leaned down and licked at Sherlock’s chest, slowly moving down his body until he could stick his tongue into Sherlock’s navel. By then, Sherlock was breathing heavily and when he sucked at the soft skin just beneath his navel, he could feel Sherlock’s returned erection twitching against his chin. 

John was very tempted to just move down and pay some attention to Sherlock’s cock, but instead he sat up and reached out for the bottle again, taking a proper swig this time. 

Sherlock watched him with wide eyes. He seemed so amazed by what John had just done that John felt obliged to ask whether he was okay. 

“Umm, yes. I’m … erm, I’m okay,” Sherlock answered slowly. Then a grin spread accross his face and he held out his hand for the bottle. John passed it on and he swallowed three times in quick succession. 

“Sherlock, you just said it’s expensive. If you wanted to do shots we could have just gone ahead and gotten some vodka.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sat up and pulled him in for a kiss. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock pressed the bottle into his hand again and lay down. John took another sip and then another one before he corked the bottle again and settled down, too, letting Sherlock spoon him while they watched the fire. 

John grew sleepy and the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his back and that of the fire in front of him made him want to just fall asleep and not move at all in the foreseeable future.

“How is your shoulder?” Sherlock asked after a while, dragging John out of his dreamlike state. He rolled it carefully and then lifted his arm to reach behind him and touch Sherlock’s hair and he managed without feeling a strain on his shoulder. 

“Good, for now.” He squinted at the fire. “You should get dressed,” he murmured. “Your arse has got to be cold.” He pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s hair to reach down to see for himself. 

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible against John’s neck. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock nuzzled his neck and tugged at the rim of John’s t-shirt with his teeth, making him giggle. 

“Oh, I see,” he said and rolled away from Sherlock. “Get up then.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock rose from the duvet and John reached down to pick up the pillows. He felt the burn in his shoulder now, but it was overall much better than he had feared from the pain earlier. The warmth seemed to have helped a great deal, and possibly also Sherlock’s surprised reaction to his terribly cheesy way of getting his first taste of whisky. 

He started giggling when he imagined coming back to London and telling Jenson about the trip. _And then I was doing body shots off Sherlock’s stomach and he liked it it._ He sat down on the bed and grinned at Sherlock. 

“What’s so amusing?” Sherlock growled and threw the duvet across the bed, burying John underneath it. 

“Nothing,” John said happily once he had emerged again. “Come here,” he lifted the duvet and Sherlock climbed into the bed and lay on his side, his back facing John. 

John smiled and moved closer until he lay flush against Sherlock’s back. He reached around his hip to pull him even closer and was surprised when he found that Sherlock was still hard. “Want me to do something about this?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he wiggled his arse, making John squirm. “No.”

“Hmm, okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and closed his eyes, his thumb stroking slowly along Sherlock’s hip bone. Despite his teasing, Sherlock didn’t move and eventually John fell asleep. 

The first thing John noticed when he woke up was the stark contract between the warmth beneath the duvet and the cold against his face. The fire had burned down during the night and the room had cooled down to the temperature it undoubtedly had had for the past few weeks when no one occupied it. He pulled the duvet up to his nose and pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s back. Then he inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. 

The room looked much larger in daylight than it had last night, and the bed remained ridiculously large, as if it had been taken directly out of a renaissance castle. He smiled widely when he remembered that he now knew Sherlock’s first name. Sherlock stirred in his arms and John noticed that he needed to piss. However, just the thought of getting out of bed made him shiver, so he stayed where he was. 

“Morning,” Sherlock drawled sleepily and John kissed his neck. 

Sherlock wimpered and moved until he could lie on his back and blinked at John with tired eyes. Then he lifted the duvet, making John complain about letting the cold in before he dropped it again. Only then did John remember that he had fallen asleep while Sherlock had been aroused. When he reached between Sherlock’s legs, he found him half hard. There were no traces that told him that he had come during the night. 

“Want me to do something about this?” he repeated his offer from last night and gently tugged at him, drawing a small desperate noise from Sherlock. “Don’t tell me you were hard all night.”

Sherlock shrugged and his whole body jerked when John started stroking him into full hardness again. 

“Oh my god,” John pushed the duvet away, not caring for the cold anymore and moved down so he could pull him into his mouth. A shock ran though Sherlock’s body and his hands pressed against the mattress, his fingers spread out as if he tried to keep himself from taking hold of anything he might damage. John was mesmerised. 

He sucked him into his mouth as far as he could take him and gently fondled his testicles. This time he could feel the moment before Sherlock came. A small, exhausted cry escaped his lips and his body went rigid. John pulled back and stroked him through his orgasm, watching his body shake and jerk before Sherlock exhaled noisily and rubbed his eyes. 

“You didn’t sleep much, did you?” John asked while he wiped at the traces of Sherlock’s orgasm. 

Sherlock yawned and squinted at John. 

“I didn’t fall asleep until an hour ago.”

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock. I could have just …”

“No,” Sherlock bit his lip. “I wanted to know what it feels like.”

John checked his watch. It was just after eight o’clock. “You lay awake for seven hours to see if you could stay hard and what that would feel like?”

“Your hand helped.”

“What did I do?” 

Sherlock grinned and took hold of John who grunted at being touched when he needed the bathroom so badly. But it was all Sherlock did. He just held on loosely, not moving, not squeezing, no real pressure. “Fuck!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Now I know.”

“Congratulations,” he said sarcastically and pushed his hand off his cock. “I have to use the bathroom.”

Sherlock grinned and pulled the duvet over his body. John climbed off the bed and grabbed his wash bag which he took to the bathroom to brush his teeth while he stared out of the window. It was a grey and misty morning and he wanted to wrap up in a warm coat which he hadn’t brought and wander around outside. 

Or, he considered, once he had finished brushing his teeth, he could go back to bed and stay there all day. 

Sherlock was fast asleep when he returned and he didn’t have it in him to disturb him – not after he had apparently kept him up all night without meaning to. 

So instead of giving in to the urge and crawling under the covers again, he pulled on Sherlock’s jumper and made his way downstairs to make himself some tea. He checked his emails and decided against answering any of them. Just to make sure that Lestrade didn’t worry about them, he sent a short text to inform him that they had made it and that they were doing well. Drinking his tea, he wandered around the house. It looked much less like a museum in daylight and he found several objects that added a personal touch to the rooms, such as a couple of Christmas cards which still rested on the mantel piece of the largest of the fire places and a collection of matchbox cars in a seed box. 

He felt a great urge to open some of the cabinets and wardrobes just to have a look, but he wouldn’t dare without Sherlock’s explicit permission. Instead, he went upstairs again and had a look at the guest rooms. He wondered if they ever had guests over. Something told him that Mycroft also came up here to be by himself – not that he seemed like a very sociable person in the first place. 

Then he saw another staircase which he hadn’t noticed the night before. He climbed upstairs and found himself in what he guessed were the former servants’ quarters. The rooms were much smaller and didn’t have any paintings or fancy furnishings. Instead he found a small library, a room full of old sports equipment and winter clothes, and a room which held little more than a ladder that apparently led up to the attic. He would ask Sherlock if they could go up there as he wanted to see the roof. For some reason John felt it important to know where Sherlock's hiding places had been in this huge house. 

When he walked back, he realised that among the winter clothes, there were also several kilts and tartan skirts hanging on a rack among fur coats. He grinned when he imagined Sherlock wearing one, and nothing else. John was still amused by this thought when he made his way back downstairs. He quietly opened the door to Sherlock’s room to find him still fast asleep. So he turned to the sole bookshelf next to the window and read through the titles. They were mostly chemistry and engineering books, but he also found two books on the history of motorsports and one on Formula One. One of the two books seemed familiar to John and he pulled it out to find that it was Elizabeth Hayward's "Grand Prix", a book from 1971 which John remembered borrowing from the local library when he was a child. 

He opened the book and noticed that it was well thumbed and that some passages were underlined or marked with small scribbles. John sat down in the window sill and started reading, realising that the underlined passages were all about race strategy and driving techniques. He smiled fondly, looking up at Sherlock, whose dark curls were the only thing he could see of him from his perspective. 

Eventually, John closed the book and put it back into the shelf. He hated the thought of waking Sherlock, but he didn’t know where he was allowed in the house and he didn’t want to have breakfast without him. 

He climbed back into bed and immediately Sherlock sought him out and draped himself half across John’s body. With a contented sigh, he buried his face between John’s chin and shoulder and fell asleep again.


	51. Chapter Fifty-One

“What am I going to do with you?” John said to the sleeping man across his chest. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, so John decided that maybe he could just do what they had come up here to do. Relax. He inhaled deeply – as deeply as the weight across his body allowed – and tried to think of nothing. His mind rebelled against such a notion and soon he thought of Sherlock’s strange nervousness before they had left London and the tears he had spilled after their kiss on the bed last night. Sherlock had cried with such desperation that John had simply not known how to react other than to hold him and act as if nothing extraordinary had happened while his heart broke for him.

Sherlock had suffered during his time here, and it wasn’t just an overprotective bully of a brother that had made him miserable. There had to be something else. He tried to imagine having a reaction like this, and then it hit him. Only two nights ago he had clung to Sherlock, full of pain and doubt and self loathing and he hadn’t had the strength to stand on his own two feet. Maybe something about this house was as painful to Sherlock as his injury was to John? 

He hugged Sherlock tightly, knowing he would probably wake him up, but he needed to hold him with both arms. 

Sherlock stirred and pressed his face against John’s. “You brushed your teeth a while ago,” he murmured and then lifted his head, looking down on John with tired eyes. “You’re sad. Why are you sad?”

John couldn’t say why, but he immediately felt tears welling up behind his lids and his throat felt tight, too tight to speak. Sherlock frowned and moved to the side, giving John room to breathe, and that made it even worse for John. A single tear ran down his face, tickling his ear. 

“What is it? Are you hurt?” Sherlock’s hand came up to carefully rest against shoulder and John laughed, causing more tears to run down his face and he turned on his side to kiss Sherlock and he wiped his face and rubbed his eyes and then he smiled at him. 

“I’m fine,” John assured him and slipped his hand between Sherlock’s side and arm, pulling him close. “I just …”

Sherlock frowned and his eyes lost their tired glaze and became bright and alert. 

“I just wondered why you cried last night,” he said quietly, hoping that he hadn’t touched on something that Sherlock had hoped they could just ignore.

“Oh.” He pressed his lips together as if he didn’t want to speak at all, but then he focused on John again. “You helped me replace a memory of this room with a much more favourable one.”

“So you didn’t cry because you were sad?”

Sherlock smiled at the obvious parallel between his and John’s more recent reaction. “No. I just became a lot less lonely. And you aren’t sad either, are you?”

“No,” John said and bit his lip. “I’m just … a little overwhelmed. And more than a little mad about you?”

Sherlock’s smile made his heart beat faster. “Right,” Sherlock said against his lips and kissed him slowly and messily and John moaned when his hand slipped under his jumper and t-shirt. 

For a while they simply touched each other, Sherlock’s naked skin against John’s cotton clad body. Finally, Sherlock pulled at John’s pyjama bottoms and was just about to move down his body when a distant ringing noise made him jump.

“What was that?”

“The door. Someone is at the door. They rang the bell.” Sherlock looked very much put out by the thought that anyone dared to interrupt them in such a fashion but he pushed himself up, his face reflecting his annoyance and he marched towards the door. Only when John broke out in giggles, Sherlock turned to look at him. “What?”

“Clothes, maybe?” 

Sherlock sighed loudly and opened a drawer to pull out a ratty dressing gown. He managed to look petulant and graceful at the same time when he put it on. Then he ruffled his hair and left the room with another sigh. John chuckled and climbed out of the bed. He was curious to see who would come up to the house and see if things were alright, because he figured that it might be one of those people whom Sherlock had referred to last night. 

Sherlock just came out of the kitchen, where he had turned off the alarm system for the front door, when John caught up with him. “Do you know who it is?”

“I have my suspicions,” he answered. “Stay back a bit.”

John waited in the hall when Sherlock went to the front door and opened it wide. “Thomas,” he simply said before the visitor outside had a chance to say anything.

“Good … afternoon, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock didn’t react at all and John could feel the awkward pause nip at his patience. Sherlock had been so open and talkative with him that he had almost forgotten how Sherlock was with people in general. 

“I saw that there is a car in your drive way and I wasn’t familiar with it, so I decided to see if everything is in order here.”

“That is not why you are here,” Sherlock immediately answered and John involuntarily winced. He could feel the steel in Sherlock’s voice. “You would not have seen the car in the drive way had you not come up to the house in the first place. If you had seen it drive past the village last night, you couldn’t have known that this was its destination. Why are you here?”

The man Sherlock had referred to as Thomas was quiet for a moment and when he spoke again, he sounded intimidated. “I was going to borrow the shears.”

“Oh, of course.” 

John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was being sarcastic or not.

“Ours fell apart this morning and your brother said to use your shed when you are away and we might be in need of anything.”

His voice showed more traces of the local accent where before he had spoken almost without inflection.

“Did he, really? When he did become friendly with the village?” Sherlock sounded truly amazed.

“Pardon me, Mr Holmes, but he has been kind to us this past year.”

“Well, in any case. Do borrow shears from the shed and then come in for some tea. I want you to meet someone. Come around at five with Jenn?”

John shrank back a bit before he realised that Sherlock had bought them some time and that he wouldn’t have to meet the stranger with terrible hair wearing Sherlock’s jumper. 

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

Sherlock closed the door and John exhaled. Sherlock’s expression was the opposite of what he had expected when he came around the corner to find him. He looked incredibly pleased.

“What just happened?” John asked and Sherlock smiled. 

“It wasn’t who I thought it would be,” was all John got as an answer while Sherlock went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. 

John tried to be patient with him, but when Sherlock didn’t explain, John decided to ask. “Tell me?”

Sherlock looked at him from across the table. “That was McMurdo’s son, Thomas.”

“The son of your … ?” Butler? Minder? Father figure?

“Yes,” Sherlock simply said. “That McMurdo. He lives down by the mouth of the river and has a lot of sheep. Inherited them from his father. I had no idea Mycroft even talks to them.”

“Spies?” John suggested, and Sherlock laughed out loud. 

“Cakes, more like. I hear Jenny is a decent cook and I doubt Mycroft goes to the local to mingle with the people to buy food. He brings it with him or sends a helicopter. Jenn might have sent him cake at some point in the past. It’s really the only way to get Mycroft to socialise with anyone for the length of the moment that it takes him to eat a piece of pie or cake.” Sherlock prepared to mugs of tea and handed one to John. 

“This is truly the worst weakness you can have if you pretend to be a super villain, and it would be ridiculous, if he wasn’t so damn scary.”

“Not as bad as to have a weekness for John Watson,” Sherlock said quietly, and John wanted to laugh at the corniness of the remark, but then he saw his face and he immediately sobered up. 

“Think anyone is going to use me against you?”

“If I ever decided to be a super villain, you would definitely be my pressure point.”

“So I’m Lois Lane or what?”

Sherlock frowned at John and it took him a moment to understand that Sherlock simply didn’t know who he was talking about. “The damsel in distress?” he tried and Sherlock grinned at him. 

“I don’t think you’d be like that. You’d fight back.”

“Yeah, like I did when I met your brother …,” he rolled his shoulder and sighed deeply. 

Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression before he turned and walked down the hall with his tea in his hand. “We need to go shopping.”

John remained standing where he was for a moment, confused by Sherlock’s strange reaction. He wondered how he would behave if he ever met Mycroft Holmes again. Considering he was currently standing in the middle of his property, wearing his brother’s jumper and still tasting their last kiss on his lips, he figured it would happen at some point. 

Sherlock was in the process of unpacking his bag when John joined him in his room again. “What does the other S stand for?” he asked and Sherlock glowered at him. If he had wanted to get John to drop the topic, he had put his money on the wrong horse. 

“You don’t like that second name. Why?”

Sherlock exhaled slowly and then turned back to his bag. 

John chuckled. “It’s not Stephen, unless you lied to me. William Stephen Sherlock does sound a bit much, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock flipped him off over his shoulder without looking at him. “Simon,” John guessed, but Sherlock didn’t react at all. 

“Staples. Stan. Sheridan. Samuel.”

Sherlock dropped his dressing gown and John stopped talking for a minute. 

It was only when Sherlock picked up the clothes he had pulled out of his bag and made for the door that John strated guessing again. “Saturn? Sigurd? Scott?” 

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed for just a split second and John grinned. “That’s it, isn’t it? Scott? William Scott Sherlock Holmes? That’s going to be a large tattoo.”

Sherlock had almost reached the door, but he turned around now, visibly confused. “Tattoo?”

John grinned. “I knew that would get you.”

Sherlock made a face and John laughed. 

“Please don’t get that tattooed on your chest? It would be incredibly embarrassing.” Sherlock turned to go, and this time John followed him.

“Why would that be embarrassing? Would you find it embarrassing if I bore your name on my body? I’ve been carrying your mouth on my neck for half a week. What would be so embarrassing about a tattoo?” John was only half serious, but he wondered if Sherlock would really have an issue with something like that.

Sherlock turned around to him when he opened the bathroom door, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Because the name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” 

For a moment John looked at Sherlock’s amused expression and then he grabbed his face and pulled him down into a kiss that left them both breathless and giggling. 

“I will get it tattooed across my chest.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck. 

“No, you won’t,” he chuckled and gently pushed him aways. “Now let me wash so we can go out.”

“Fine,” John said and slapped Sherlock’s arse on his way into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, but only after taking another glance at his naked form as he stepped into the shower. 

John returned to Sherlock’s room and put on the warmest clothes he had brought. He opened the window to see how cold it was and found that it looked colder than it really was. It was mostly the wind that made him shiver. He wondered whether Sherlock would dare him to go swimming in the loch. It seemed like something he would do for his own amusement. 

He closed the window again and picked up the plastic bag with the condom selection. He chose his two favourites and placed them on the bed stand. The others he returned to the bag. He had guessed that Sherlock might return quickly, but he was taking his time, so John pulled the fruit flavoured condoms back out of the bag and opened the pack. He chose strawberry, hoping that it wouldn’t taste too terribly, and blew it up. 

The taste was alright, but he couldn’t imagine doing anything to Sherlock’s cock while he was wearing one of these condoms. He flicked the condom balloon into the air and caught it again just when Sherlock returned. 

He looked very put together and for the first time, John felt properly underdressed. He knew it was ridiculous, but he imagined meeting members of Sherlock’s family, other than Mycroft, and being judged by their standards. To get rid of the feeling, he gently tapped the balloon so that it flew into Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock caught it and then gave it a tentative lick, causing John to break out in giggles. “Not entirely terrible,” he commented, trying to keep a straight face. “I give you the chance to go through my things and instead you blow up condoms. What is wrong with you?”

John calmed down a bit and looked at him with wide eyes. “Considering that I spent the whole morning walking through your house looking at things I had no business looking at, I don’t think your low opinion of me is justified.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good. I was just beginning to feel guilty of locking you inside the house and just falling asleep on you.”

“Will you show me around again? In the light, I mean?”

“Of course, but now we go down into the village. Say hello, answer some uncomfortable questions, buy some milk, the usual procedure.”

“Before we do,” John stood up and slowly made his way to Sherlock, “I need to do one thing.”

“What is that?”

John reached out to grab two fists full of Sherlock’s hair and he carefully pulled him down. “This.”

Instead of kissing Sherlock on his mouth, he kissed his cheek first and then moved down to his chin and still lower, until he reached his throat. Sherlock sighed and dropped his head back, exposing his neck to John’s lips. The invitation was all John needed. He attached his lips to Sherlock’s skin and then he sucked hard. 

Sherlock's initial reaction was to groan loudly and to pull him closer to his body. When his brain kicked in, which it took a surprisingly long five seconds to do, he realised what John was doing and he tried to push him away. When he managed, John grinned at his work. 

Quite a large, dark spot was visible right next to the constellation of small liver spots on his throat. “Now we’re even.”

Sherlock rubbed his fingers over the bruise while he tried to catch his breath. John’s attack on him seemed to have affected him more than he had expected. “Let’s go?”

For a moment, Sherlock simply stood where he was, then he cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his crotch, squeezing himself. John licked his lips and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed. “You are killing me, John,” he complained loudly.

“What did I do?”

Sherlock opened his eyes again, presumably to see whether John was being serious. When he saw him grin he shook his head slowly, his lips pressed together in an attempt to stay quiet. Then he inhaled deeply and rushed forward, grabbing John’s hips to hold him close while he kissed him hungrily. John moaned and Sherlock mirrored the sound, only louder and with abandon.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John gasped when he moved down, biting at his throat and pulling at the jumper he wore only to return to his lips while he unbuttoned the first three buttons of John’s shirt before he decided that he had gotten far enough and pulled it over his head as well. John found that his hands were trapped by his cuffs, but Sherlock left him to deal with that problem and instead dropped to his knees to push up John’s t-shirt and get to work on his belt. Before he opened John’s jeans, he kissed his stomach, pulling him closer by his arse, moaning again.

“Fuck,” John shouted when Sherlock cupped his growing erection through the denim and then pressed his tongue against it. “I was going to go out in these!”

Sherlock continued, unperturbed, opening his mouth to scrape his teeth along the bulge and John’s legs buckled. Finally, John managed to free his hands and he began opening his belt, forcing Sherlock’s head back for a moment so he could open his jeans and push them and his underwear down a bit. 

Sherlock stared up at him with dark eyes. He looked utterly turned on and John wondered once more whether he affected Sherlock more than he knew. The thought alone made his head spin and he closed his eyes, licking his lips in an attempt to show Sherlock what he wanted. 

And Sherlock didn’t need to be asked. With a happy noise, he sucked him deeply into his mouth, deep enough to make himself choke. He was forced to pull back, his eyes watering and his voice rough when he cleared his throat. Then he continued, more carefully this time, using his fingers around the base of John’s cock to measure out how far he could comfortably go and began to move back and forth.

John noticed that it was different than it had been before. Sherlock used more pressure and he sucked harder, paying more attention to his head than he had previously and he most definitely used more tongue. John blinked hard, trying to stay upright, glad for Sherlock’s fingers that prevented him from bucking into his mouth too hard. He was losing control fast and he wanted to lie down, or at least hold on to something, but he could feel that Sherlock wouldn’t move an inch before he had made him come. 

So John tried to concentrate on his breathing. He tried to ignore the desperate noises that came from below, the wet sound of his mouth, his own moans that grew louder and faster with each moment Sherlock continued. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, I’ll come. I’ll…,” he doubled over, using Sherlock’s shoulders to hold himself up as well as he could. Sherlock’s lips were still wrapped around him and John knew that the fact made him come even harder. 

They spent a moment in relative silence – John trying to regain his breath and Sherlock swallowing audibly around his slowly softening cock. John forced himself to stand up straight again, his hands in Sherlock’s hair now, still using him to ground himself. With a loud plop, Sherlock pulled back and let go of him, making John moan again. “Thank you,” John said quietly, “that was … unexpected.”

Sherlock grinned and gave his head a final lick before he tucked him back into his underwear and zipped and buttoned his jeans. “My pleasure,” he said and got to his feet. 

“No, my pleasure,” John chuckled and Sherlock kissed him gently. 

“But mine, too.”

John exhaled slowly, wondering whether he should return the favour or make Sherlock ask for it. When Sherlock flattened his shirt against his chest with his palms and wiped at his chin, John knew that Sherlock was not thinking of sex anymore. He remembered that Sherlock had told him that he dealt with his arousal in order to be able to get back to work. For the first time he understood that he had really meant it. 

“Come on, John, let’s go,” he called out when John didn’t move from the spot where he had left him. 

“Right,” John made sure that he was all put together, brushed his fingers through his hair to tame his bed head and then followed Sherlock. He found him in the kitchen, washing his hands before grabbing a basket which already held a small parcel. 

“Is that the kind of shopping we’re going to do? Fairy tale style?”

Sherlock shook his head, tutting quietly. “You are a city boy, aren’t you?”

John slowly lifted his hand, balled it into a fist and then flipped him off and Sherlock’s judgemental look melted away into an amused expression. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice gentle and John could very clearly hear what he was really trying to say.

When they stepped outside, John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and for a moment Sherlock froze, standing rooted to the spot, before he looked down on their hands and then up to John’s face. The smile didn’t reach his lips, but his eyes were bright with it. A moment later, he squeezed his hand gently and John’s cheeks begant to hurt from smiling so widely.


	52. Chapter Fifty-Two

They walked all the way into the village and John soon understood why Sherlock had brought the basket – it only fit the atmosphere of the place. Next to a very small shop stood a vegetable and eggs booth. Behind it stood a familiar looking woman wearing a colourful cotton dress and slippers. John shivered just looking at her - he'd need to stay up here for much longer than a weekend to get used to the cool air. She greeted them with a frown on her face which remained there until Sherlock had leaned across the counter and kissed both of her cheeks. 

John’s eyes grew very wide at the unexpected show of affection. 

“This is John Watson, then?” the woman said and John felt even more confused. Sherlock chuckled. “It is. And this is Charlotte Hudson,” he said to John and handed over the parcel he had brought. “I was asked to tell you not to eat them all in one day,” he then said to the woman. “And we need some eggs and potatoes and possibly ... John, what else do we need?”

“Excuse me,” John was still coping with the idea that Sherlock’s landlady obviously had family in the same place in which Sherlock had spent his early summers. He was sure now that her rejection of his mistaken suggestion that she was Sherlock’s mother had not been quite truthful. “She’s known you for ages then?”

Sherlock stopped poking at random vegetables and nodded. “Charlotte is her younger sister. They’ve known me since I was old enough to leave the house.”

“Ran away, that one. Stole my bike a few times before I noticed, to go on all the way to the next loch. You’d never know what he was up to, but if you looked down the road, you’d find him eventually,” she smiled and unwrapped the parcel. It held a box of self made boiled candy. “It’s why my sister took him in in London, to keep an eye on him,” she winked and offered John the open box. “On the phone she said that you’re keeping an eye on him now?”

John chuckled, enjoying Sherlock’s slightly bewildered expression and popped a colourful sugar lump in his mouth. “Oh, I’m keeping an eye on him alright. Both of them, in fact.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and handed over the basket. “I can take care of myself. I am also paying rent,” he argued, but it did not sound sincere and John smiled at him. Sherlock must have known what would happen if they met her, and that had obviously been the plan. He was offering John more of his past and John felt privileged that he was offered the chance to get to know people that Sherlock apparently liked. 

“Lettuce, as well,” John turned his attention back to the assorted vegetables which Charlotte dropped into the basket. “A cucumber, some tomatoes. Onions, ginger, yes, that’s fine, thank you.”

John offered to pay but a single look from Sherlock was enough to make it very clear that he was not going to let him. 

“So you’re spending a long weekend, then?” Charlotte handed over the basket, looking at John and Sherlock in turn.

“Indeed,” Sherlock answered in a way that expressed both his annoyance with the small talk and that he was comfortable enough around her to know that she wouldn’t be offended. 

“If you want to use the boat, you’re welcome to it, as long as you bring it back in.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “You are letting me use your boat?”

“Ah,” she grinned. “A bit of a romantic boat ride and all that. Never even seen you stand that close to another person. It must be love.”

Sherlock’s ears turned pink and he dropped his gaze. John expected him to step away any moment now, but Sherlock shrugged and shyly slipped his hand into John’s. John squeezed his hand and smiled, feeling his heart in his throat. Whatever he had expected of their trip, this hadn’t been it. This was infinitely better.

“We could use some rice as well, and maybe find some chicken for later?” he asked and Sherlock nodded. 

“Inside,” Charlotte pointed towards the shop behind her. 

Sherlock dug out his wallet to pay for their purchases while John waited patiently, holding the basket. For a second he pictured them from further away, a mechanic and a race car driver, out in the middle of nowhere, buying their dinner like they had in the olden days. 

He shook his head, chuckling, and Sherlock caught his eye. “What?”

“This, just this.” John made a sweeping motion with his free hand. “This is ridiculous and brilliant.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, deepening the dimple on his cheek. He dipped his chin, looking at John from under his eyelashes and John was suddenly overwhelmed with butterflies in his stomach. He took a deep breath just when Sherlock leaned towards him, stopping him mid-motion. “Inside then,” he said, helpless with the need to kiss Sherlock. He cleared his throat nervously and turned around to enter the small shop. 

He stared blankly at the refrigerator full of milk and yoghurt for a few seconds to keep himself from turning around again to do what his body and soul yearned to do. 

It was only when a long, familiar arm reached past him to take a bottle of milk that he managed to breathe again properly. Sherlock looked endearingly confused and turned on at the same time and John reached out to touch his shirt collar, holding on to the bit of fabric with three fingers to keep himself from touching Sherlock in other places. “Sorry,” he said after a long moment and moved down the aisle. He picked up a pack of rice as well as pasta, a stick of butter, some toast, strawberry jam and honey while Sherlock followed him in safe distance. 

At the counter, John found that the shop also offered fresh cheese and meat, so he asked for some cheddar, bacon and half a chicken. This time he paid for the food, if only to have something to do with his hands while Sherlock restacked the contents of the basket. 

There was very little conversation, but the man behind the counter didn’t seem to mind so much. Only when they left, he touched his index finger to his temple and grumbled “g’day, Mister Holmes. Watson.”

They left the shop and Sherlock nodded at Charlotte Hudson before he quickly turned towards the path they had come from. “How did he know who I am?”

Sherlock smiled. “News travel fast. That’s why I did not necessarily want to buy condoms here.”

John looked back, wondering if the shop had actually offered anything of the kind, but he had not paid enough attention to actually remember what else there had been apart from what his hands had picked out almost reflexively. 

“The apothecary lives a few houses further down the road. Everything is sold from behind the counter,” he explained with a grin. 

“God, I made such an arse of myself in there,” John laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Why do I stop functioning properly when you …,” he stopped midsentence, not quite sure what exactly it was that made him stop functioning. He looked at Sherlock, whose amused expression made him grin, but then his eyes dropped down to the mark he had left on his throat and he swallowed hard. 

They both quickened their steps, which meant that John was practically jogging along next to Sherlock’s long strides. Sherlock pressed the basket into John’s arms before he unlocked the door to the main house. John wondered if he’d get to see the old house again today or whether the unexpected visitors would cut his alone time with Sherlock short. 

John frowned hard as he entered the house, almost stumbling against Sherlock, who had stopped to take the basket from him again. He couldn’t believe that he resented getting to know people from Sherlock’s past because he wanted to have him all for himself. 

Sherlock sat the basket down and turned around again, breathing heavily. John stared at him, wondering once again how the buttons on his shirt did not just pop off as his chest heaved. Then he realised that the buttons should be the last thing he should be worried about. For a long, terrifying second, John thought that Sherlock was having a panic attack.

He reached out for him and Sherlock closed the short distance between them, and they melted together in a kiss that made John’s heart race. Sherlock almost lifted him off his feet and dragged him back towards the door, pushing him against the wood and crushing their hips together. The sudden flash of heat in his groin made John shout in surprise and he bit Sherlock’s chin gently in retaliation. 

“How much time do we have?” John gasped against Sherlock’s lips. 

“Not nearly enough for the things I want you to do to me,” Sherlock answered and John moaned, desperate to feel Sherlock’s skin on his, to feel his lips on him and his hands. 

“What things?” he managed to drag his lips away from Sherlock’s throat, where he had been showering the love bite with wet kisses. 

Sherlock pushed himself away a few inches and took John’s face between his hands, kissing him gently before pulling back again. He was still breathing heavily and John could feel his hardness against his hip when he pulled him closer again. “Everything,” Sherlock swallowed hard. “I want you to do everything.”

John tried to be still, to hold on to that moment of Sherlock’s revelation, his trust, his love. He felt himself shake and he blinked hard against the tears that suddenly burned behind his eyes. “Tonight,” he whispered, his voice sounding thick and rough and not at all sexy and he laughed out loud at this ridiculous thought and a tear rolled down his cheek and he coughed the tightness in his throat away and tried again. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Tonight,” Sherlock repeated, sounding every bit as sexy as John had jealously expected him to sound and he laughed again, nodding emphatically. “Yes, tonight.”

“Not now, then,” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and then pulled back, almost letting go of John. 

“No, now it’s just quick and dirty,” John agreed and pushed Sherlock further away only to launch himself at him again, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers while Sherlock tugged at his jumper. 

It took them a small eternity to undress as they left a trail of clothing behind them on their way into the sitting room. John pushed Sherlock into an old large leather armchair and straddled him. 

Sherlock’s right hand immediately took hold of both of them and started stroking, forcing John to close his eyes and throw his head back. He held on to the arms of the chair first, but soon he couldn’t keep his hands from touching Sherlock. He stroked along his chest, and thighs and arms and finally he stopped Sherlock’s hand when he felt that he would come if Sherlock continued stroking them both. 

“Wait,” he gasped. “I don’t want to come yet.”

Sherlock moaned and dropped his hand on his stomach, flicking his own cock with his little finger and commenting on his own action with a grunt. John chuckled and kissed him. 

“You said quick,” Sherlock argued eventually, pursing his lips. 

“Well, yes,” John leaned over him to kiss the pout away. “But not that quickly.”

“What about dirty?” Sherlock asked, raising a challenging eye brow. 

John licked his lips. “Well, I could talk dirty to you.”

“I was thinking more of motor oil for some reason,” Sherlock admitted with a half laugh. 

“I didn’t say greasy,” John grinned and flicked Sherlock’s right nipple with his fingernail. Sherlock grunted and bucked up underneath him. “Also, motor oil is coming nowhere near any of our cocks, is that clear?”

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, but the laughter was still in his eyes. 

“Good,” John kissed him again. He took Sherlock’s hands, pinning them against the rough leather of the back of the armchair, rolling his hips to keep up the friction. Sherlock closed his eyes and arched up, straining lightly against John’s hold. 

John leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s chest, but his shoulder prevented him from going much lower. Still, he managed to suck one nipple into his mouth, teasing Sherlock, whose breathing slowly but surely became more laboured. 

When John moved to the other nipple, Sherlock began pushing back properly, forcing John to readjust his grip on his hands. Sherlock’s hips started to move, seeking more friction, pushing up against John. 

“Please,” he said quietly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should speak at all. John sat up straight again, redistributing his weight and forcing Sherlock’s hips to stop moving. “Please, John!”

John was about to tell him that he would not touch him if fought against him, but his eyes fell on the large clock which stood in the corner of the room and with a flash of panic he realised that it was half past four and that their guests would arrive in half an hour. 

Sherlock noticed John’s reaction and tugged his hands free. He grabbed John’s arse and pulled him forward a bit while he sat up straight, effectively pinning their erections between their bellies, and turned around to see what the matter was.

“We’ve not even started cooking,” John said, suddenly mortified of the thought of inviting guests for tea and then not being able to offer them anything to eat. 

“You wanted to take your time,” Sherlock said with a smirk. 

“Oh, fuck you,” he laughed and wanted to get up, but this time it was Sherlock who held him in place. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sherlock growled and leaned back again, taking hold of them again. John closed his eyes and tried to resist bucking up into Sherlock’s hand. When Sherlock’s hand tightened around him, John opened his eyes again, knowing that Sherlock was close. He had all but melted against the back of the chair, both hands furiously stroking himself and John while his chest was flushed with arousal, his eyes half closed while he had trapped his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Come, Sherlock,” John moaned and Sherlock’s eyes shot to his face, widening when John pushed the hand away, with which Sherlock had been stroking himself, leaving only his right hand to continue stroking John. And John took over and changed the pace, bringing Sherlock’s hand on him to a stuttering halt before he tried to imitate him, speeding up, tugging harder. He fell forward when he came, pumping against Sherlock’s hand, cock and stomach, his face pressed against his shoulder. 

A second later, Sherlock rocked up and against him, his cry muffled by John’s skin. He arched up again twice, before he relaxed enough to drop his head back against the chair. 

“Jesus Christ,” John mumbled against his ear when he tried to sit up again. He blinked hard and finally managed, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s. “God, I hope your people aren’t the punctual kind.”

Sherlock chuckled and inhaled deeply. “They are.”

“Fuck. Sherlock!” John pushed himself out of the chair, trying not to get any come on the leather. Then he held out his clean hand and helped Sherlock to get up. “Fuck!” he said again for good measure, and then he scrambled up the stairs and into the bathroom, turning on the shower and, cursing loudly at the cold water, he washed himself as quickly as he could. 

Sherlock showed up in the door just when John was done, so John pulled him into the stall, gave him a blue lipped kiss and grabbed a towel. John couldn’t remember ever drying himself off and getting dressed as quickly as he was just then. He picked up his clothes from the ground in the reverse order of shedding them earlier and then fetched the basked from where they had left it at the door and raced into the kitchen. 

He put the kettle on, searched the kitchen for a proper pan, cut the chicken up, chopped vegetables at high speed and threw them together into the pan to fry while he poured the boiling water into a pot and then added rice. Then he shook out his hands, took a deep breath, and began pulling all kinds of spices from the kitchen cabinet. 

“Do you need help?” Sherlock asked from the door. “It looks like you’ve got it all under control.”

John huffed and shot him a dirty look. “Set the table? Get a bottle of wine that will make them forget how basic the food is and, for god’s sake, stop being so gorgeous!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at John’s passionate exclamation but John didn’t have time to wait for a proper reaction. He melted a bit of butter and added flour to make roux and created a sauce by adding water, spices and some of the oil from the stir fry.

Then he tried the rice, judged that it needed another five minutes, turned down the heat on the food and went to look for Sherlock. He found him in the dining room, opening a bottle of white wine. “It’s warm,” he said, sounding somewhat dazed. He had lit a fire in the fireplace and the sweet smell of melting raisin filled the room. 

“You okay?” John asked, taking the wine from him. “It’s cool enough,” he judged and put it on the table. “Do you have another one? We could put that in the freezer for a moment.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. He turned and opened a cabinet which held a large selection of wines. Only one was missing, and John presumed it was the one on the table.

“You don’t do the wine thing often, do you?”

“I don’t do dinner often,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Not quite dinner,” John grinned. “Just a stir fry with expensive wine. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, nodding once as if to make sure that he himself believed what he was saying.

“Okay, good.” John took the unopened bottle from him and went back into the kitchen. According to the clock it was just a minute to five. He tried the rice again, poured it into a strainer and switched the gas off under the food. “Sherlock,” he called while he put the wine into the freezer. “I need some bowls for the food!”

Sherlock appeared a moment later, carrying two bowls and one saucier, still looking somewhat dishevelled. John carried the rice and the pan to the table and sat them down. Then he walked around the table and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He gave himself a few seconds to enjoy Sherlock’s arms which tightened around his back before he let go of him, pressed a small kiss to his lips and then began pouring the food into the bowls. 

Together they carried the food up into the dining room and just when John let himself fall into a chair the doorbell rang. Sherlock inhaled deeply and then held out his hand, pulling John up. For a moment, they stood very close together and John remembered how, in another time and place, they had stood this close together, their positions reversed, and their hands touching while they were incredibly afraid of each other. 

John could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he remembered it just as vividly. He licked his lips and then kissed John very carefully, as if to chase that memory away and to replace it with a new one.


	53. Chapter Fifty-Three

Sherlock turned away from John, but grabbed his sleeve at the last moment and tugged him along when he went to open the door. 

Thomas was a middle aged man with kind, hazel eyes and large calloused hands that reminded John of his own grandfather. Even the corduroy trousers he wore awakened memories. He blinked the thought away and focused on their guests. 

Jenn wore a blue cotton dress which fit her cheerful expression. She immediately extended her hand to John and shook it while holding on to a covered basked with her free hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Watson,” she beamed and John couldn’t help but smile at her widely. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs McMurdo.”

“Jenn, please.” 

“Well, John then,” John returned and let go of her hand. “Mr McMurdo.” He shook the man’s hand and smiled when Sherlock cleared his throat as if to remind them of his presence. 

“Thomas,” McMurdo offered and then looked at Sherlock. “Mr Holmes.”

John bit his lip, grinning, waiting for the inevitable. 

“Sherlock,” he said, sounding a bit annoyed, but John knew it was for show – or maybe it was to make sure that he was the preferable Holmes brother. “Come in.”

Their guests walked into the house and John noticed their faces when they saw the interior. He wondered if he had looked the same, simply staring in awe of such unfamiliar extravagance. “It’s a bit … large, isn’t it?” John whispered to Jenn and she smirked and nudged his arm with her elbow. “Don’t insult the host,” she whispered back.

“I’m not insulted,” Sherlock clarified and John and the McMurdos chuckled. 

They were entirely different from what John had imagined them to be. The conversation he had overheard earlier had sounded as if Thomas wouldn’t dare to speak to Sherlock when he wasn’t asked to. He was glad to have gotten the wrong impression. 

John wondered whether he should offer to take anything from them, but figuring that they hadn’t brought jackets or anything else that they needed to leave by the door, he asked whether he could help with the basket. When Jenn declined, he nodded, straightened his jumper and followed Sherlock into the dining room. They sat down and Sherlock poured the wine. Then he sat down and tented his fingers together in front of his lips, a gesture, John had learned, that meant that he was about to say something but wasn’t quite sure how to word it. 

“Thank you for coming,” he finally said. “I ... didn’t think anyone would notice that I’m back … we … that we’re here.”

“Well,” Thomas smiled widely. “I didn’t expect you to come here of all places after that race. And with your mechanic, too.” He smiled at John in a way that was entirely free of sarcasm. “Are you secretly building cars here now? Extending the business?” 

“I’m always here on the weekend after Silverstone,” Sherlock argued. The tip of his shoe touched John’s under the table. John felt ridiculously and embarrassingly smug about it. “And John is here for other reasons.”

“Not work then?”

“To get away from work.”

Thomas frowned, genuine concern on his face. “Has something happened?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, but John cut in before he could start talking. “He won the race, people became interested in him. The press, sponsors, colleagues.”

“You don’t count, then?” Jenn asked, looking closely at Sherlock.

“He’s the only one that counts,” Sherlock said too quickly and his ears turned a bit pink. John tried to hide his smile. 

“I built his car,” John said, sounding a bit too proud, even to his own ears. 

“Read about you in the papers. You hadn’t so much as touched a car in months,” Thomas noted with interest in his voice. 

John inhaled deeply. “I was in an accident, and since then …”

“Oh, I know," he interrupted. "I watched it happen. Was on the hills to catch the signal back then.”

“So you know me not because people here know who I am because of Charlotte Hudson?”

“Well, when I started asking around, I learned that you had come up here with Mr Holmes. Sherlock.” He said it as if it tasted strange on his tongue. “But yes, I was quite the follower back in the day. It’d be good to see you back behind a wheel.”

“He’s been driving most of the way up here,” Sherlock said, nodding for emphasis. “And he put the car together.”

“So there’s hope?”

John huffed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve been doing better, but racing is a whole different adventure.” 

“So that’s why you’re up here?”

John glanced at Sherlock whose ears were still pink. _I’m here to be naked with this man_ , he thought, biting his tongue. “Partly, yes. There are also a few important decisions that have to be made and I need to spend some time away from Woking to really think about where we go from here.”

Wondering when the elephant in the room would be addressed, he began serving everyone the food he had thrown together. It tasted surprisingly good, John found, smiling to himself while he chewed. 

“So, Jenn,” Sherlock started just when the silence in the room threatened to become awkward. “How is … life?”

John looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, biting back a giggle. Sherlock returned his gaze with a judgemental look that made it even harder for John not to laugh. 

“Life is good, thank you. The shears finally gave in after years of service, but the sheep have been healthy and we’re making good progress on the farm.” 

“Good. Good.” Sherlock took a large sip of wine. 

An awkward silence descended on the room after all and John was not quite sure how to break it. He did not want to ask any untoward questions without knowing more about them. 

Everyone was slowly emptying their plates and John tried hard not to do the same as Sherlock and hide behind his wine glass. “Is the water very cold?”

“You mean the loch?” Jenn asked, amusement gleaming in her eyes.

“Well, it’s not quite the ponds of Hampstead Heath,” Sherlock cut in and John kicked his shoe to shut him up. 

“It’s fairly cold. Nobody ever goes swimming, if that's what you're asking. Well, Mr Holmes did when he was younger.”

“Mycroft?” John tried to imagine the man wearing anything else than a suit. He couldn’t.

“No, the wee one,” she tipped her head towards Sherlock. “Swam the whole thing – usually when he was supposed to be in the mansion.” 

Sherlock frowned at her, but she did not let that stop her. 

“Almost died of pneumonia because of it. Tom’s da sat him down in front of that fire place over there and waited until he had life in him again.”

“You were there?” John asked, surprised by the enthusiasm which Jenn put into her narrative. 

“Nah, ‘s what Tom’s da told me.” 

Thomas smiled at Sherlock who sat straight in his chair, clearly uncomfortable to have stories about him shared at the table. John watched him carefully. It wasn’t the same kind of distance he had felt from him in Woking when he had walked through the building with him. This was different – these were stories about someone he was fond of, and who had quite obviously played a huge part in his younger years. 

“So,” he turned back to the guests, “not good for swimming then?”

“Well, a bit of a splash would be fine, but after more than five minutes you probably won't feel your extremities anymore,” Thomas answered. “Was in there once to repair the jetty and almost lost a leg.”

John shook his head, grinning. “So, a boat-ride is a good idea. Swimming isn’t.”

“Sure, boat-ride’s more romantic anyway,” Jenn said with a smile. John did his best not to let his emotions show and Sherlock simply remained frozen in his awkwardly tense position. 

“Sunset up on the hill is nice, too, if you ask me,” Thomas added, looking at his wife fondly. “And not just to find a signal for the telly.”

“Oh, come off it. You never went up the hill to watch the sunset.”

Sherlock relaxed minutely next to John and John hooked his foot under Sherlock’s ankle and pulled. Sherlock was forced to lean back in his seat now that he had moved and with a slow exhale he did just that. John looked at him until he looked back and then smiled at him in, what he hoped, was a reassuring fashion. 

“Bring a light, though. Might not find your way down afterwards and you don’t want to get stuck up there. The midges will eat you alive. They might do that anyway, if you bring a light, but at least you’ll be back quickly.”

John immediately abandoned any and all thoughts of open air sex with Sherlock and nodded, pulling a face. “So it’s romantic only until just after the sun has set?”

“Nah, the beasts are there, day and night, but they get a bit more focussed in the twilight.”

“Swimming suddenly sounds like the better idea after all,” John joked and downed his glass. “I’ll get more wine.”

He left Jenn and Thomas McMurdo in the dining room with Sherlock and hoped for the best. To believe that they would see their respective love bites and not draw the logical conclusion seemed silly and John wondered how it would be back at work. Sherlock had been rash by marking him, but now John had marked him, too, he knew that things could get difficult. If he raced in Germany, the cameras would be on him constantly and they would notice eventually. 

With a sigh he opened the freezer and pulled out the bottle. He’d have to stay away from Sherlock. Only talk to him when they were alone. If anything like his sudden loss of control during their shopping trip happened down at the race track, there would be no way on earth to hide what they felt for each other. 

John opened the bottle and wiped at the condensation with a tea towel. They would have to be professional about this, there was no other way. Sherlock would focus on his driving and John would spend the nights in a different hotel room trying not to crawl out of his own skin with need for him. 

He walked back into the room to find Thomas calmly explaining to Sherlock about Mycroft’s unexpected visits. Sherlock looked up at John with a grin. “It was the cake. I knew it!”

“Speaking of,” Jenn cut in and got up to retrieve her basket which she had put down on a chest by the wall earlier. 

“You brought cake?” John asked and Sherlock looked pleased. 

“Pie.” She pulled the cover from the basket and lifted out a box from which he took a golden brown pie. The sweet smell immediately spread out in the room and John inhaled deeply. 

“Jenn, that smells absolutely delicious.”

She smiled proudly and put it down in front of Sherlock. The crust was neatly braided all across the pie, but one band of dough had been placed on top of it, showing the number 1. 

John swallowed hard as he watched Sherlock stare at it. 

“Congratulations,” Thomas said, sounding truly proud. 

Sherlock continued to stare. Then he blinked slowly, as if he were somewhere else entirely. “I’m … umm,” he stood, upsetting the glasses on the table, the chair scraping along the floor. His eyes were still fixed on the pie. Then he looked at John with something like panic in his eyes and he stumbled backwards and rushed out of the room and up the stairs. John heard a door fall shut. 

“Shit,” he said before he pressed his hand against his mouth, feeling like he had sworn in front of his parents. “I’m so sorry.”

Thomas nodded, but Jenn looked truly upset. 

“It’s not the pie,” John promised, although he had no idea what it was that had scared Sherlock off. 

“Nah, it’s not the pie, it’s people. It’s us.” Jenn shook her head and wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I should’ve known. People don’t change.”

John felt the palms of his hands itch. Everything in him wanted to run after Sherlock and make sure he was okay. 

“Oh, he’s changed. It’s just …”

“No offense, John, but you just met him, haven’t you?”

John licked his lips nervously. “Yes, but I know him. I know how he was and how he is now.”

“You’re good with him, hmm?”

“That doesn’t sound right,” John argued, exhaling loudly. “I like to believe that I am good for him, because he’s very good for me.”

“I think we should go,” Jenn said, but her husband put his hand on her wrist. 

“Maybe John is right? Give him a chance?”

“We can’t replace him, Tom. You know that, right?”

John felt a lump forming in his throat and tried to swallow against it. “No,” he finally managed. “I think you’re doing better than you think. He’s not used to anyone taking any real interest in him. He ran away from me when I first … well, told him.” He put his chin in his hand and tried to calm his heartbeat. “When I told him how I feel about him. He walked out on me. And before that. Whenever I said something that was about us outside of work, he’d walk away.”

“So it’s a sign of affection?” Jenn still seemed unwilling to simply accept Sherlock’s behaviour and John could truly understand her. He had been in her position not too long ago. 

“It’s a sign of severe emotional neglect,” John said, realising that it was true only when he said it. “He was never shown true love. His feelings were never considered to be relevant, and if you look at this place it’s no miracle. There isn’t a single personal object in this room. How can you expect him to act like nothing is different when he’s suddenly confronted with something he has almost no experience in?” 

Thomas slowly took his hand from his wife’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” Jenn said, nodding. 

“No, that’s alright. I understand. You made this lovely pie to celebrate his success and he walks out. You have every right to be angry.”

“Do you want to check on him?”

John nodded. “Please stay, have more wine. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He forced himself to walk slowly, climbing up the stairs calmly. The door to Sherlock’s room was open, but he was not inside. “Sherlock?” he called. “Can we talk, please?”

He walked down the corridor, knocking on doors and then opening them, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. “Sherlock?” he called again for good measure. Then he took the next flight of stairs up and found that the door to the room with the winter clothes and kilts was closed, even though he had left the door open this morning. He knocked again and then slowly opened it. Cold air met him and he quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him. 

“Sherlock?” John walked into the next room, finding the ladder to the attic extended. “Sherlock, I’m coming up!”

He climbed up the few steps and found himself in a large, almost empty attic. Only one corner of it held some old furniture, but the rest looked as if it was never really used. He heard a noise from that corner and slowly walked over. Behind a book shelf he found an open window and when he leaned out, he saw Sherlock sitting on a ledge a few feet out on the roof. “Hey,” he said quietly, “can I come out?”

Sherlock exhaled slowly and extended a hand without looking at him. “Don’t slip.”

John pulled a chair close and used it as a step and then carefully climbed outside. The roof was steeper than it seemed from below, but several metal stubs made it easy to move along. He sat down next to Sherlock and closed his eyes against the vertigo he felt when he looked down. 

“They’re still here.”

“I can’t go down now.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. 

“Is this were you used to go?”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Ever felt like jumping?”

“Only to test theories of physics,” he said and reached out his hand. 

“Good.” John took it and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Good. The pie is still waiting for you.”

“McMurdo used to make pie,” Sherlock explained. “When he read in the papers that I’d won a cart race or when I could answer all of the quiz cards he had of race cars and drivers.”

John scooted closer and wrapped his arm around Sherlock. “You miss him, don’t you?”

“I don’t miss people,” Sherlock argued stubbornly. 

“Not people, family.”

A small pained noise escaped Sherlock and John pulled him into his arms properly, both relieved and terrified of losing his grip and falling to his death. “Come back down and have some pie? They are really happy for you. And for us, as far as I can tell.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and wiped at his face. “I’m sorry that I did it again.”

“Apology accepted,” John smiled and kissed him carefully. “It’s rather lovely out here.”

“More tricky to find me when it’s dark,” Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “Bloody perfect when it rains.”

“Okay, we can come back later if you want to. With a blanket. And tea or something. But now we go back inside and share some dessert with our guests.”

Sherlock nodded and rose. He looked entirely safe and sure of his steps when he climbed over John and then made his way back to the window. Once inside, he looked out and held out his arm. John climbed a few feet before he reached out and let Sherlock pull him inside. They giggled when they almost fell in the attic and John pulled him into his arms and kissed him. 

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded and kissed him again. “Come on.”


	54. Chapter Fifty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting <3

They climbed down the ladder and the two flights of stairs silently and John smiled at Sherlock encouragingly before he entered the dining room again. “Sorry about that,” he murmured and waited until Sherlock had sat down before he left again to get a knife to cut the pie. 

Sherlock seemed only mildly uncomfortable when he returned. Jenn and Thomas, however, looked rather pleased. “Thank you, John,” Jenn said when he handed her the first plate with a quite large piece of pie. John caught her eye and nodded, understanding that it wasn’t the plate she meant. 

The second bottle of wine was emptied on much more relaxed terms than the first. After the first bite, Sherlock couldn’t hide how much he liked the pie and after John teased him a bit he apologised and apologised again after taking a second piece of pie. 

Thomas told John more about his interest in motorsports, citing his own father’s interest as his inspiration. Sherlock was very quiet while Thomas spoke, but when he began talking about following Sherlock’s progress, Sherlock reached out for John under the table and John held his hand and squeezed back gently whenever Sherlock tensed up. 

He never spoke of Victor, John noticed when he changed the topic to John’s driving. “See, a friend of mine aspired to a rally driving career, and he did Scandinavia, but he always wanted to go east. He died in a crash during a qualifying.”

“I’m so sorry,” John frowned, wondering why he was telling him about his friend.

“Bright young thing, he was. But he died doing what he loved, so, in the end, what can ye say?”

John looked at him for a very long time. He clearly meant what he was saying, but John wondered whether it was more a coping mechanism than a true belief. “I’m very happy I didn’t die doing what I loved,” he finally said. 

“Quite,” Thomas said and sent a meaningful glance in Sherlock’s direction. “But you haven’t returned to driving after, have you, even though you miss it?”

“Panic issues, post traumatic stress” John admitted. 

“But you are building cars again.”

“Only very recently.”

“You might race again.” 

“I’m not sure that it’s what I want to do, though,” John admitted. It was a sudden stiffness in Sherlock’s hand that made him think about what he had just said. He looked at Sherlock, who looked back at him with a peculiar look on his face. “I think I’m better in the garage. I loved putting Molly together,” he kept looking at Sherlock. “I think I’d much rather keep building cars that you can drive than drive myself.”

Thomas smiled at John and nodded. “Found your muse, did you?”

John felt blood rush to his face. “Seems like I did.”

Jenn carefully began stacking plates on top of each other. “I think it’s time to go. Early morning tomorrow. Let me just help you with these and then we’re off. Thank you for supper and the invitation.” She looked at Sherlock with so much warmth that he had to look away. 

John was up in a second, helping her to carry the dishes to the kitchen. “Thank you for staying,” John said when they were alone. “I know it was difficult for him to come back, but I think it helped immensely that you stayed.”

“I understand what you meant when you said that you two are good for each other. It seems like you’re right about that.”

John smiled and dried his hands. “Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“I think he does, now.”

“Hmm, possibly.”

“I think your father in law meant a lot to Sherlock. Much more than he would ever admit.”

“Can’t blame him, really. His own father was doing a rather terrible job of being a da.”

John nodded. “If your husband ever wants to go to a race, you know, we can invite friends.”

Jenn grinned at him. “Don’t give him any ideas. We’ve got sheep to care for and a business to run. He can remain judge at the regional cart tournaments, but if I let him go to one of these races of yours, he’ll never come back.”

John laughed. “Alright then. But if you change your mind, … you might enjoy it as well.” 

Jenn gently patted his arm. “Thanks for the lovely evening.”

They went back to the dining room where Sherlock and Thomas were in the process of downing two tumblers of whisky. They looked somewhat embarrassed at being caught but then they looked at each other, shrugged and finished the glasses off. John chuckled. “Oh, by all means, do get drunk while we do the washing up,” he teased and Sherlock put down the tumbler. 

“I was going to offer …”

“Let’s go, Tom. Let’s give these two some space.”

Thomas nodded and took Jenn’s hand. They took them to the door and John handed Jenn her basket. “Thanks again for the pie,” he said, squeezing her hand. Sherlock inhaled audibly but then remained quiet. 

“Have a good night,” he shook Thomas’s hand, who held the grip longer than necessary. 

“Don’t pressure yourself,” he said when he let go. “Sometimes you feel like you need to overcome an obstacle even though you only have to turn around and walk the other way.”

John wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but he nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Congratulations again, Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock answered quietly, as if unsure how to express it properly. 

“And don’t go swimming in the loch, you hear? A quick dip, yes, but no proper swim.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped back a bit. John chuckled and kissed Jenn’s cheeks. “Good night.”

They watched them walk away from the house until they had disappeared behind the building. Then John turned around and stepped closer to Sherlock. “They’re lovely.”

“Do you want to go for a swim?” Sherlock asked, a smirk appearing on his face. 

“A dip, you mean? It’s going to get dark soon.”

“It’s not like the sun was out all day.”

“I don’t want to freeze.”

“You won’t freeze. Promise.”

“And you won’t catch pneumonia?”

“I was in there for twenty minutes and I was much smaller.”

“We need to have at least one warm room to come back to.”

“We just need a bed,” Sherlock argued. 

“You do know that we can go to bed without jumping into the lake first?”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide with mirth.

“How much whisky did you have?”

“Not enough for you to claim that I am making irrational suggestions.”

John kissed him gently. He couldn’t tell Sherlock how glad he was that he was back to normal, well, his normal. 

“Let’s go.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Come on.”

Sherlock tugged at him until John decided to use his own feet. They jogged down to the shore of the loch and John took a moment to take in the lovely few. Despite the grey skies, the lake looked gorgeous, the surface shimmering with an almost unnatural stillness, as if it was moving glass rather than water. He crouched down to test the water and pulled his hand back immediately. “This is ridiculously cold.”

“Chicken,” Sherlock grinned, already unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Oh, fuck you,” John answered and pulled his jumper off. “And no fuck you if my bollocks freeze off.”

Sherlock laughed hard enough to fall on his arse while he tried to get out of his trousers. John shook his head and slowed his own progress. “We are going to die.”

“No, we’re not.” Sherlock kicked off his trousers and socks and got up. He kept on his underwear and John wondered whether he should risk it to go completely naked. Sherlock stopped him when he tugged his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. “We’ll be running back to the house. You will want to keep them on.”

John sighed and imagined the soaked fabric flapping against his private parts in the wind and shuddered, but the thought of literally running into someone from the village naked was equally unpleasant. And then there were the midges. He had already felt a few tiny stings on his chest. Not entirely painful, but annoying, and sure to be incredibly annoying in great numbers. So he pulled off the rest of his clothes except for his pants and walked to the edge of the water. He dipped his toe in and bit back a squeal. 

“It’s really _really_ cold,” he said, waiting to see what Sherlock would do. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then took a few steps in, holding his breath. When the water flapped gently against his knees he let out a pained scream that made John laugh hard enough to topple forward and into the water, where he mirrored Sherlock’s scream. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” John muttered with each breath and each step he took further into the lake. He passed Sherlock, unable to not feel like this was a competition, and found that he couldn’t feel his feet anymore.

“John, careful, it’s fairly …” John turned to look at Sherlock to see what his warning was about when he stepped into nothing and suddenly found himself engulfed by freezing water. For a second he blinked widely under water, seeing in the last light that he had stepped across a stony ledge and that the water was several feet deeper now, before he realised that the cold was forcing the last bit of air out of his lungs and he started flailing his arms and legs, pushing himself up to the surface again. A second later, he felt Sherlock’s arms around his chest, dragging him back to the ledge. 

“Well, fuck me,” John spluttered and wiped his face, already shivering. “I think my feet fell off.”

Sherlock looked slightly worried, but John noticed with some satisfaction that he had also gone under during his attempt to rescue him. 

“You could have warned me a bit sooner,” he grinned and attached his freezing chest to Sherlock’s. The air was cold against his skin, so he dragged Sherlock down under the water again, wrapping his legs around Sherlock’s hips, keeping their heads just above the surface. 

“It’s an illusion that it’s warmer in the water,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking with cold. 

John inhaled deeply, trying to keep still as every movement meant that his skin registered the cold anew. “Okay, that’s enough for a dip. I can’t feel my cock anymore.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. “Yes, well, if that’s the case, let’s please get out of the water.” 

They staggered out of the lake, blue lipped and shivering and John took a moment to marvel at the gooseflesh across Sherlock’s chest which turned his nipples dark and hard. Instead of picking up his clothes as he had planned, he stepped close to Sherlock and pulled him against his body again. Then he pushed him back again to lean down and suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Sherlock shouted and tried to push him away, but John teased him with his tongue and Sherlock’s hands merely grabbed John’s arms and held him there. Only when John bit him gently, Sherlock gave an undignified squeal and John let go of him. He was quite aware that the sound travelled widely across the surface of the water and he was not too keen on having people come up to check who was screaming like that in the evening. 

“That hurt,” Sherlock complained while he bent down to pick up his clothes. 

“It was supposed to,” John countered as he did the same with his own. 

Then they made a dash for the house, arriving shivering and breathing hard, the water condensing on their bodies, turning them into ghosts in the twilight of the evening.

Sherlock dug around in his trouser pockets for his keys and John pressed his back against the door, willing him to hurry up.

“Oh,” Sherlock said after a minute of forcing his stiff fingers to bend and be useful.

“Oh?” John repeated, dread making him shiver harder. “Please tell me that you have the keys. Did you lose them down by the water?” He was ready to go and look for them, but Sherlock shook his head, looking embarrassed. 

“I left them in the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom?”

“When I had a shower, earlier, after… well, the chair incident.”

“The chair incident?” John realised that he was down to repeating what Sherlock said in an incredulous manner, but he felt like he was going to burst into pieces of ice if he didn’t get inside and under a warm blanket soon.

“I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock looked around slightly panicked before he pushed his clothes at him. “Get dressed and keep moving. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

“Where are you going?” John called after Sherlock, who was already running away from him and around the house. “Bloody hell,” he whispered to himself and shook his head. 

He heard a loud screech of metal and dropped his and Sherlock’s clothes at the door step, picking up only his jumper, which he clumsily pulled on, and followed the sound. 

He found an almost naked Sherlock attempting to scale the wall of the house by using the downspout and the tiny spaces between the bricks on the wall. John’s heart stopped for a moment when he realised that the screech had come from the downspout protesting against the weight Sherlock put on it. 

“You know, we could run down to the village and see if anyone can help?” He wasn’t sure how loudly he should speak, and Sherlock didn’t stop climbing. 

“If you fall, I will kill you,” he added fiercely, finding himself stepping closer to the house and planting his icy feet on the gravel right underneath where Sherlock was just reaching the second storey. A few more feet and he would have made it to the roof. 

He held his breath, finding that his heart was beating hard enough to warm him up again, sweat slicking his palms as he watched, transfixed. 

Sherlock reached the roof and momentarily seemed suspended in the air before his left arm gripped the ledge on the lowest part of the roof. He let go of the downspout, dangling from the ledge forty feet up in the air. “Sherlock!” John called, unable to keep quiet. "Fuck!"

Sherlock finally lifted his right arm and grabbed the ledge with both hands. 

“I hate you!” John shouted passionately. “What are you going to do now? And don’t you dare fall!” 

Sherlock stilled his body before he took an audible deep breath and pulled himself up until he could put an elbow on the ledge, his toes searching for an irregularity on the wall to steady him. John could only hear the rush of blood in his ears for a moment and then Sherlock started swinging, once, twice, and then he lifted his leg high enough to plant a foot on the ledge as well and somehow found the leverage to pull his entire body up, too. 

John closed his eyes, trying to steady his heartbeat. If the cold water hadn’t come close to giving him a heart attack, Sherlock’s stunt up there on the roof was about to make up for that. 

“Bastard,” John said under his breath, watching as Sherlock sat up and then climbed up higher on the roof, reaching a grate which led from chimney to chimney and balanced along it until he reached the window that he had used to climb out on the roof earlier. John exhaled, finally understanding what he was doing up there. 

Sherlock effortlessly climbed down to where they had sat only an hour ago and then rubbed his hands together for warmth before he manipulated the window open by applying pressure to the right spots. It looked like this wasn’t the first time he had entered the house in such a fashion. He dipped through the frame and was gone. John exhaled and made his way back to the main entrance. It only took Sherlock a few seconds to open the door from the inside.

He stepped out of John’s way, avoiding his eyes when he passed him. 

“Upstairs,” Sherlock said quietly, when John shoved their clothes at him. 

John heard the shower running. 

“The water should be hot in a minute.”

John sighed deeply and grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair, pulling hard and forcing him down to look at him before kissing him hard and with teeth. Sherlock grunted at the pain and the pleasure of it and finally dropped the clothes to pull John flush against his body. 

John hugged him hard, needing to make sure that Sherlock was still right there, in front of him, unhurt and relatively sane. “You are never, ever doing something this stupid again,” John said, looking him square in the eye, pressing his index finger against Sherlock’s sternum hard enough to bruise. 

“We’re inside, aren’t we?”

John narrowed his eyes and Sherlock actually pulled back a bit. 

“Fuck you!” John said and let go of him, stomping up the stairs.

He found that the water was indeed hot when he stepped into the shower after stripping out of his jumper and underwear. He closed his eyes and let the water engulf him for a moment. He waited for Sherlock’s touch, but it never came. Shaking the water out of his hair, he walked naked and wet accross the cold tiled floor to the door. 

“Sherlock? Are you coming?”

He found Sherlock sitting on the stairs, his arms wrapped around himself, shivering. 

“What are you doing?” John asked, realising that Sherlock might have taken his anger too much to heart. 

“Waiting until you are finished.”

“Jesus, come on. Get up. You have to get warmed up.”

Sherlock slowly rose. John hadn’t noticed the scratches on his elbows and knees, but he saw them clearly now. “Does it hurt?”

Sherlock seemed confused by the question, but then he followed John’s concerned gaze and lifted his elbow to look at it. Then he shook his head. “I’m fine.”

John frowned at him. He had said the same thing when he had been cooking, and something had been going on with him. Sherlock’s ‘fine’ definitely meant something other than that he was alright.

“Come on, let’s get you warmed up.” He held out his hand until Sherlock placed his own into his before he turned around and pulled him into the bathroom and the shower. Sherlock hissed when the hot water hit his raw skin, but he stayed where he was.

After a few moments of letting Sherlock enjoy the water, John tentatively placed his hand on his hip. Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked the water away. “I’m sorry for getting loud,” John said, gently stroking Sherlock’s skin with his thumb. 

Sherlock squirmed and let out a small moan. “I’ve done this before,” he argued. “I was never this cold, so it proved a bit more difficult than usual, but it was the quickest way.”

“And the most dangerous one,” John retorted, placing his other hand on Sherlock’s other hip. “I was terrified that something might happen to you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment before he spoke. “I got us inside, did I not?”

John sighed. “You did.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any real danger.”

“Sherlock,” John shook his head, wondering how he could get across that he had truly been scared out of his wits for a moment. “You hung from a roof with one arm. After you had a few glasses of wine and whisky. A bird could have scared you. My voice could have distracted you. Any odd thing could have happened and you would have let go.”

“But I didn’t let go.”

John groaned, feeling his patience wear thin. “Yes, well, you didn’t die. Good for you,” he said sarcastically, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes. “But there was a real chance that you could have, so please take me seriously when I ask you to never do anything like this again.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Sherlock answered and John could only stare at him, disbelief numbing his senses. He finally dropped his gaze and his hands from Sherlock’s hips and inhaled deeply, trying his best to keep the pain at bay that threatened to momentarily overwhelm him. 

“I can’t lose you,” he finally said, swallowing against the restricting feeling in his throat. “I can’t lose you now that I have you.”

Sherlock stood very still, his hands shaking lightly, though John couldn’t be sure whether it was because of what he had just said or because he was still cold. Endless seconds ticked by and the only noise was the sound of the shower running. Finally, when John thought he couldn’t spend another second like this, Sherlock reached out and pulled him into his arms, hugging him tightly, pressing his lips against John’s temple. 

Reluctantly, John raised his arms to embrace him, too. “I just learned not to be afraid. I can’t go back to being constantly afraid.” 

“I knew what I was doing. If I would have felt anything other than safe, I would have stopped.”

John believed him, but it didn’t chase away the feeling of helplessness that has almost overwhelmed him earlier. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Sherlock continued, pressing another kiss to John’s temple. “That was not my intention.”

“Why did you come after me?” John asked, pulling back a bit. “While we were in the lake? Why did you come to pull me back?”

“Because I didn’t want you to … oh.” Sherlock looked every bit as guilty as John had secretly hoped he would. 

“So you see. Even though you knew that I was perfectly safe, you still came after me to make sure that I was okay.”

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. 

“Please don’t climb that wall again? You might have done it a hundred times and always managed to not fall, but one day you might not be so lucky.”

Sherlock nodded. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

John pulled him back into his arms, holding him tighter this time. “It was a tiny bit sexy,” he admitted after a moment of silence. Sherlock huffed and pulled back. “The water is getting cold. We should move to the bedroom.”

“I need some more of that whisky,” John said as he accepted the towel Sherlock held out to him.


	55. Chapter Fifty-Five

They raced each other to Sherlock’s bedroom, leaving their clothes scattered on the bathroom floor. While they were both much warmer now than they had been, John was quite aware that they needed to remain warm. His shoulder protested when he ripped the duvet off the bed and wound it around himself while Sherlock started another fire in the fireplace. 

The bottle of whisky sat next to the fireplace and it would have taken John only four steps to go and get it, but from where he was standing, he had a rather lovely view on Sherlock’s back, so he stayed where he was. 

Sherlock noticed, of course, and gave him a very suggestive look when he turned around, holding out the bottle to John. 

“I don’t want to kill the mood,” he added after he had a small fire going and stacked two larger logs on top of it. “But you still need to do your stretching.”

“If I stretch now, my muscles will rip clean through,” John complained, experimentally rolling his shoulder. “I need to be warmer for longer.”

Sherlock nodded and went to get the cushions from the bed. “Sit down,” he ordered, and John sat cross legged on the soft carpet, the duvet bunching up around him. 

“Are you going to sleep tonight?” John asked, wondering if it was something that Sherlock could control. 

“Possibly. Depends, really.” He shoved the two pillows against John’s back, creating a backrest against which he could lean.

“On what?”

“On how much you tire me out.”

John looked up at him and grinned. His thoughts travelled back to their heated conversation earlier that day and suddenly he felt warm all over. At the same time, he felt like they should wait until the morning, when it was light out and they were both less agitated. 

“Sherlock?” John petted the space in front of him and Sherlock turned off the light and slipped under the duvet and into John’s embrace. “You said that you wanted me to, well,” he swallowed. “Do everything.”

Sherlock stilled in his arms and John was almost certain he had stopped breathing for the moment. 

“I don’t think we should.”

Sherlock let go of a shaky breath, but he did not react in any other way. 

“I’m too distracted and I don’t think it would be very good.”

Sherlock was very quiet, looking at the fire, so John couldn’t see his face. 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s answer was too timid to be affirming John’s gut feeling.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ever?” The question was barely audible.

“Tonight,” John frowned at the back of Sherlock’s head. “I can’t stop thinking about earlier and I don’t think I'd have the patience right now.”

“Tonight,” Sherlock repeated and John gently pushed a hand into his hair, tugging carefully. 

“Do you want to, still?”

“Of course I still …” Sherlock turned around. He looked confused and a little bit disappointed, John noted with butterflies in his stomach. “Not tonight?” Sherlock asked. “Tomorrow?”

“If we both feel like it tomorrow, then yes. Absolutely.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and suddenly came alive again. “Oh, thank God, for a moment I believed you had decided that you wouldn’t want to do it at all.”

John huffed and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, leaning back against the cushions, kissing his shoulder. “No, of course I want to. I’ve wanted it so much, but now I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened to you and I don’t think I can right now.” 

“Not tonight. That is acceptable.”

John giggled and angled Sherlock’s head so he could kiss him, half from behind and half from above. It was an awkward kiss, but John was long past hoping to impress Sherlock. 

“I do want you,” John admitted against the nape of his neck. “I want you very, very much.”

They were quiet for a long while, pressed together for warmth, the fire casting dancing shapes against the walls around them. John felt himself get sleepy and he wondered whether they could just stay as they were all night. But the floor wasn’t ideal, even with the duvet wrapped all around them and he did not want to wake up freezing in the middle of the night. 

Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s wrists, his thumbs stroking along the inside lightly, making John shudder. “I’ve wanted to do that since I met you,” Sherlock said quietly, his voice low and sleepy. 

John felt a small flash of heat in his stomach, which spread out from there, warming him all the way to the roots of his hair. “What else have you wanted to do since you met me?”

Sherlock half turned, smiling at John. “Your turn first.” He bit his lip and John felt himself blush. 

Then he pulled his hands from Sherlock’s gentle hold and pushed them into his damp hair. “Your hair stuck out of your balaclava,” John smiled. “It was the first indicator that you were not fond of rules and regulations.”

“You mean apart from the fact that I was driving your car around the circuit on a Monday?”

John chuckled and dragged his fingernails along the sensitive skin on the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock arched up with a moan. “It’s one thing to not know why you drive, or rather kill, a car on a Monday, and another thing entirely to know that you let your hair grow out for it to become a fire hazard.”

“Oh, so you liked the danger of that, then?” Sherlock was only half serious, but John heard his serious undertone clearly.

“I found it fascinating, yes. I still would have been mad had you scaled a wall then.”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said. 

“Maybe not, but I wasn’t in love with you then.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and pushed back against John's hands. 

John let go of his hair and wrapped his arms around his chest, squeezing hard, as hard as his shoulder allowed him to. “Your turn.”

Sherlock sighed deeply before he turned around, allowing cold air to enter their cocoon. John complained, but Sherlock ignored him. He sat in John’s lap, knees on the ground next to John’s hips. John found it almost ironic how this position reflected their height difference so completely. Sherlock tipped John’s chin up with his finger, and then simply looked at him. 

For a moment John wondered what Sherlock would do now, but then it dawned on him. Sherlock wanted to look at him, just like he had wanted to look back at Sherlock for as long as possible. 

“I lost my limp after that day,” John realised, thinking of Sherlock’s observations about him. 

“Part of why your shoulder got worse, I’m afraid,” Sherlock nodded. 

“That’s what you meant when you said I walk differently.”

“Partly, yes.”

John nodded and placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest, squeezing gently before moving lower. “Your fireproofs are too tight,” he explained, prompted by Sherlock’s raised eyebrow. “And that fucking shower act in the box. It still haunts me.” 

He pushed Sherlock back a bit and began kissing his chest. He licked at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, nibbled at the skin above the prominent edge of his collar bone and then moved down, sucking and licking at his nipples, growing restless and aroused, his breath becoming rough and quicker. Sherlock bent back, putting his weight on his arms next to his calves, his stomach stretching, showing the lines of his muscles sharply. His cock was filling up, pressing against John’s stomach. 

John moaned loudly, dragging his hands up and down Sherlock’s stomach and chest, digging into his hips, kissing every bit of skin he could reach without hurting himself. 

“You’re so goddamned beautiful,” he whispered, dropping his hand to gently caress Sherlock’s erection. 

“Yeah, it’s not bad looking, is it?” Sherlock grinned down on his cock and John laughed breathlessly. He moved his hands around Sherlock’s body to grab his buttocks and then pulled him up. Sherlock’s cock nudged his lips and John smiled up at Sherlock, who buried his hands in John’s hair. 

“Is that something you wanted to do to me on Monday?” Sherlock grinned down on John. 

“Possibly. Though I would have laughed at the mere suggestion then,” he spoke against Sherlock’s flushed cock and then he opened his mouth, pulling him in as far as he could go. 

Sherlock gasped, watching John’s face intently. “Laughed? Why?”

John pulled back, licking along the edge of Sherlock’s foreskin, greatly enjoying the whimper it drew from Sherlock. “Because I felt so incredibly insecure about myself standing next to you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

John let go of him entirely, leaning back a bit so he could look at Sherlock properly. “Come here,” he whispered and raised his chin and Sherlock bent down to kiss him. John moaned into the kiss, unable to help himself when his own cock suddenly had room to join Sherlock’s against his stomach. Sherlock’s hand dropped down without him breaking the kiss and they swallowed each other’s moans when he began stroking them both. 

“Slow down,” John gasped, feeling himself giving in to the warmth of Sherlock’s hand and the smell of his damp hair and the taste of his skin. 

“That was definitely on your list, wasn’t it?” Sherlock grinned and settled down on his side, pulling John against him. 

“Making you less impatient? Yes. First thing on the list, actually.”

“How utterly practical,” Sherlock chuckled and kissed him, increasing the speed of his strokes again when John was preoccupied with nibbling on Sherlock’s lower lip. 

John arched up and pressed his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, his left hand digging into Sherlock’s hip while his right tried to slow him down by holding on to his wrist.

“No. This time I get it my way,” Sherlock clarified and sped up. 

When John felt his orgasm build up and rip through him, he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on how alive he felt – and how alive Sherlock was, arching into his own touch, breathing curses against John’s forehead. 

Sherlock kept stroking them both, sending electric shocks through John’s nervous system. He had come more often in the last two days than he had during his entire last relationship, he mused, wondering when he’d start being sore from the attention and marveling at the fact that he wasn't yet.

Musing over that question finally gave him the strength to push Sherlock’s hand away and he let himself roll onto his back, arms and legs spread out. Sherlock watched him, his face flushed and his eyes hooded. 

“Bed?”

“Mhm,” John agreed, staying right where he was. 

“You still have to stretch,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I hate this injury,” John almost shouted, pressing his right hand against the scar. “I don’t want to.”

“You said you needed to warm up first.”

“You just said _bed_ in a very suggestive way,” John countered. 

“I momentarily forgot. I was, umm, distracted.”

John gave a long suffering sigh and sat up. Sherlock had managed to catch most of their come in his hand again, a skill John knew would come in handy in the future. That, and Sherlock’s willingness to swallow.

“I’m a lucky man,” John said, pushing hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Come on. Wash up and I do my stretching and then we sleep.”

Sherlock nodded and held out his clean hand. John managed to get on his own feet and then he dragged Sherlock up and into an embrace, kissing him thoroughly. When they parted, John had to stifle a yawn. He still felt boneless and the mere prospect of physical activity made him feel even more exhausted. But Sherlock disappeared from the room and returned with a wet cloth, carefully wiping John’s stomach and genitals. 

“On your knees,” Sherlock ordered before he left again to let John start on his own. 

For a few moments John knelt on the floor. The room had warmed up, and he felt relaxed despite everything that had happened earlier that day. He pushed away the memory of his fear for Sherlock, and his fear of facing his own past while Sherlock did it so bravely, and began with the routine. 

He felt the pain return to him like a shadow of a headache rather than tangible ache. He hoped that it would continue to get better and to eventually heal enough for him to do what he desperately wanted to do – pick up Sherlock or hold him down, tackle him and tickle him and press him against doors and walls and the hood of his car without fear of hurting himself. He smiled, imagining the look on Sherlock’s face when he realised how strong John really was and that he had held back all this time. 

“Found your incentive?” Sherlock commented from the door, where he leaned against the frame, naked and entirely relaxed. 

“Close the door or the cold will get in.”

“Oh, it’s rather hot in here,” Sherlock winked at John.

“So you enjoy watching me suffer?” John tried to hide a pleased grin. 

“To an extent,” Sherlock closed the door and leaned against it. “You did smile, though, so that’s a good sign.”

“You think it is, but you have no idea,” John returned and got up, rolling his shoulders experimentally. He had managed the entire exercise without feeling like giving up or crying. He picked up the bottle of whisky and took a long pull, enjoying the heat that travelled down his throat and the taste which fit so perfectly to the landscape outside. Sherlock stepped closer and took the bottle from him. “Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of the house,” he said, sounding like he had just come to a decision which had been hard to make. He drank from the bottle, making a face that indicated that he had just brushed his teeth, and handed it back. 

John nodded, looking at the bottle in his hand. “We should use glasses to drink this. We’re being so uncultured.”

“Tomorrow.”

John looked up at him with a small grin. “Alright.”

Sherlock smiled at him in a way that made John remember Jenson’s remark about how Sherlock looked at him. A black AC Cobra he had said, but John knew that he was beyond that now. Sherlock didn’t look at a car he could never own – well, considering his family background, Sherlock possibly could – but a car he had driven and grown to like, despite its faults. Once again, John felt intensely happy just to stand there and look back at Sherlock. 

“I’ll go brush my teeth,” he finally said, having to force himself to walk away from Sherlock.

He took his time in the bathroom, carefully sorting through the ups and downs of the day. He needed to address those things, he had realised. He had spent too much of his life bottling up emotions, trying to forget negative experiences, pretending that everything was just fine.

With Sherlock, he wanted to be better than that. He needed to speak his mind and he needed to talk things through with him – he owed that to Sherlock and to himself. They were walking a brittle path, but so far it worked incredibly well. Sherlock trusted him unconditionally, it seemed, and John felt himself open up to Sherlock like he never had to anyone else. 

Once he returned to Sherlock’s bedroom, he felt relaxed and strangely reconciled with the events of the day. Sherlock sat on the bed, typing on his phone. “Are you texting Lestrade?”

Sherlock smirked without looking up from his phone. “I’m texting Mycroft. I don’t have a signal for anyone else.”

“Why do you have a signal specifically to communicate with your brother?”

“Because he insisted on building a radio tower on top of a hill not far from here so he could be in touch with his people.”

“Is there a bunker under this house?” John joked. When Sherlock didn’t react he switched off the light and climbed on the bed where he joined Sherlock under the covers, breaking his promise and immediately banishing Mycroft Holmes from his thoughts. 

The duvet smelled like smoke and sex, he noted with a smile, feeling himself stir. “Jesus. My cock thinks I’m a teenager,” he complained and Sherlock finally lowered the phone. 

“What?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s like I let it rest for too long and now it wants to catch up with all the action it didn’t get.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded. “I see.”

“Aren’t you sore?” John asked, wondering how much sex would be too much sex. He’d had his fair share of experience in his early twenties, but he figured that it might eventually get exhausting to react with a downward blood flow every time Sherlock smiled at him. 

Sherlock reached between his legs, tugged once, twice and then shrugged. “I’m okay.”

John scooted closer, wrapping his arms around his hips, kissing his waist before blowing a raspberry against his skin. Sherlock chuckled and put the phone away. “I think I will sleep tonight.”

“You think?”

“All the variables are right,” he explained. “My body temperature is slightly lower than usual, the room temperature is sixteen degrees and you are in bed with me.”

“One of these is not like the others,” John chuckled and opened his arms so Sherlock could lie down. 

Sherlock turned away from John, silently asking to be spooned. John complied with a smile and pressed his face against the nape of his neck, inhaling deeply. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night. John.”


	56. Chapter Fifty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter ... I hope you enjoy. I know the two boys did ;)

John dreamt of Hockenheim that night. The noise of the audience was somehow muffled as he found himself staring at the screen above the control board, following Sherlock’s progress. He saw him fall through the ranks, further and further down, as hundreds of cars passed him by, driving by the chequered flag. John turned around to ask Lestrade for advice, but he found that he was by himself. The race ended, yet Sherlock was still on the screen, stuck in the same lap with each time he crossed the finish line. 

The winners stepped out on the podium and yet Sherlock kept driving, passing below John’s feet, his radio silent, the noise of the car painfully loud. The fans left, the sky grew dark, everyone packed up and left and yet John stood by the control panel, keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s name. 

Eventually, Sherlock stopped the car and John dragged his eyes away from the screen, stepping around the computer to see him drive backwards into the pit lane. He did not wear a helmet and his hair was wild and slick with sweat. He climbed out of the car, looking anywhere but at John. He looked resigned and tired, and John longed to hold him, but something kept him back. 

Sherlock left the car where it was, pulled out a bag and began walking away. John wanted to call out, but found that he couldn’t. He wanted to run after him, but found that he was inside a cage, unable to get out. He gripped the wire with both hands, pulling hard, feeling the skin of his hands fall away, but he did not feel pain. All he felt was the desperate urge to follow Sherlock. 

Then he saw a man sitting in the stalls across from where he stood. It was Thomas, wearing his corduroy trousers and a woollen jumper, signalling him to turn around. John wanted to call to him, but again, his voice just wouldn’t work. He felt sudden warmth in his back and turned around to find Sherlock standing there, saying his name, quietly, as if hidden behind layers of fabric. But then John remembered what Thomas had said about turning around and when he did, he found that the fence was gone and that he could walk through and with every step he took away from Sherlock, the voice saying his name grew louder. When John finally turned around again, he saw that Sherlock had followed him and that he was freshly showered and happy.

John opened his eyes to the sound of Sherlock’s voice saying his name. “John?”

“Hmm?” John stretched, rubbing his face and blinking at the light. 

“You talked in your sleep. You didn’t sound very … happy.” Sherlock knelt on the bed, still wet from the shower with a towel around his hips. 

John closed his eyes again, inhaled deeply, and opened them again. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled until he lay down next to him and John could press his face against his chest. He must have subconsciously incorporated the smell of the shower gel into the last bit of his dream, he thought. For a moment he stayed like this, waiting for the dream to dissipate, before he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him quickly. 

“It’s alright, you came back,” he then said, glad that his dream hadn’t been more disturbing. He did not feel any of the tightness in his chest he had felt that night when he had called Sherlock, panicked and afraid. “And you’re here, too. Much better than sleeping alone.”

Sherlock huffed and gently touched his face, tracing the line from the root of his nose to the corner of his mouth and down to his chin. “You dreamt of the race, didn’t you?”

John was surprised, but then remembered that Sherlock had said he had been speaking in his sleep. “You didn’t win. You didn’t even finish … not properly. It was very strange.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” Sherlock noted, making John smile despite himself when he dragged his thumb along his lower lip. “The sponsorships, the strategy, the contract.”

John lay back and Sherlock tentatively pulled his hand away. “I want you to do what you feel most comfortable doing. If it bothers you that people are interested, you don’t have to race. You’ve made your point and you proved to everyone how extraordinary you are on the track. But if that’s too much, then I’ll not ask you to continue.”

“Lestrade asked me,” Sherlock reminded him and John nodded, annoyed with himself that he had ignored that Sherlock had other loyalties than to himself and John to consider. “I’ll race, if you keep working on the car. I’ll sit through the interviews and I’ll answer the questions, but I want you there. Every step of the way.”

John nodded. “Of course.”

“You’re worried about Jenson.”

“He’ll be fine,” John admitted. “Whatever happens, he’s a great driver, but he’s also so much more than that. He's talked about his life after racing and he never sounded sad. If, for some reason, he quits the team, he’ll be fine.”

“But you won’t?”

“It just wouldn’t be the same without him.”

“So that’s your condition? He stays?”

“Am I in a position to name conditions?”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him. “Lestrade has just discovered that one of his best men is in fact brilliant at his job, so I think he might just listen to you.”

“So you’ll do Hockenheim?”

“In your car, with you at the other end of the radio.”

“And then?”

“Vandoorne might be back. Magnussen might get better.”

“What do we do when Kevin returns?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Want to share?”

Sherlock grinned and climbed on top of John, removing the towel. “Number one,” he smirked and leaned down to kiss John breathless. 

He was halfway on his way to orgasm when John noticed that Sherlock had started a new fire in the fireplace and that there was tea on the night stand, as well as a pack of condoms next to a bottle of lubricant. 

“Do you want to?” John asked, his head already swimming with arousal and need. “God, I would so love to make love to you right now.” 

Sherlock sat up, his flushed chest heaving with every breath. He nodded vigorously, causing his wet hair to fall into his face. “When I was in the shower, I …”

John felt his breath quicken. “You did what?” He reached out and pulled Sherlock closer, pushing one hand between his buttocks, probing. “Jesus,” he gasped when his index finger slipped in easily. 

Sherlock squirmed. “I’m not sure how much it helps, but I wanted to give myself a little head start.”

John laughed and let himself fall back, stroking Sherlock’s thighs with both hands. “I need a minute,” John admitted. “I’m not sure I can actually do this without coming the second I am inside of you.”

“It would still count,” Sherlock explained, sounding entirely serious. 

“Oh Sherlock, you have no idea, do you?”

“What?”

“It’s not just about … being in you. It’s … hard to explain,” he fumbled for words. “I need to piss. Don’t move.” He scrambled off the bed and quickly stalked across the cold floor towards the bathroom. Taking a few moments to regain his breath and to properly wake up, John felt his hands shake with excitement. This was it then. Sherlock trusted him enough to go all the way. He just hoped that he could make it good for him.

When he came back into Sherlock’s room, Sherlock sat on the bed, slowly stroking himself “I want to see how far ahead you went,” John said, biting his lip. 

Sherlock grinned and let himself fall to the side. “How do you want me?”

“For now? On your knees.”

Sherlock gasped and immediately pressed his hand against his mouth as if embarrassed that the mere prospect of what John was about to do stole his breath. John felt ridiculously pleased with himself. 

He nudged Sherlock until he rose to his hands and knees, arching his back while looking around to watch John with his lower lip trapped between his teeth. 

John needed a moment to not simply bring himself off to the view he was presented with. To calm himself down, he picked up the bottle of lube and knelt behind Sherlock. Then he grabbed his arse and squeezed, drawing a yelp from Sherlock which turned into a moan when he moved towards the centre, letting his thumbs massage the soft skin around his anus. He felt Sherlock relax under his hands and when he lowered his upper body to rest on his arms, John squeezed lube on the tips of his fingers and then pushed one in.

Sherlock stiffened for a moment before he exhaled loudly. 

“Talk to me?” John asked, waiting for Sherlock’s answer before deciding on what to do next. 

“It’s different. It feels different from when I do it.”

“Let me know if it hurts, yeah?”

“Hmm.”

John began moving in and out slowly, alternating pressing up, down and sideways until Sherlock relaxed. Pulling out, John made Sherlock spread his legs further and kissed his arse with a smile. Then he pushed in two fingers, meeting more resistance than before, but he could still move in without applying too much pressure. This time, he started moving sooner, enjoying the gasps coming from below.

“Still okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock grunted, pushing his arse up against John’s fingers. “More.”

When John pushed in three fingers, he tried very hard not to think of the pressure he would feel when he finally entered him. Again and again he had to force his thoughts away from the expectation of how it would feel like that threatened to distract him from making sure that Sherlock was properly prepared. 

“This is still not what it will feel like.”

“It’s strange. Two fingers are perfectly fine, but now it’s … oh god.” Sherlock arched up and clenched up, forcing John to keep very still as not to hurt him.

“What happened?”

“This definitely feels different when I do it,” Sherlock moaned. “Do it again.”

“You have to relax, Sherlock,” John said with a smile, stroking his buttocks with his free hand. When Sherlock exhaled and relaxed a little, John pushed his three fingers in as far as he could and carefully pressed upward. 

Sherlock cursed and arched his back even further. 

John carefully pulled out and pushed in again, feeling his cock twitch in annoyance at its neglect. The thought of entering Sherlock became almost overpowering and John found he had to hold back as not to act too quickly. He inhaled deeply and tried to think of icy loch water while slowly stretching Sherlock open. 

“John? I think this will work now. Can we try? Can we please try?”

John couldn’t remember Sherlock ever asking for anything as straight forward as he was right then. “You tell me when to stop.”

“Yes, yes. Just do it. I want you. Please.”

John leaned over to pick up a condom and opened the little packet with his teeth, despite the strict instructions on the package not to. Pulling it on, he had to close his eyes against the sight of Sherlock’s arse. Then he reached for the lube and poured a generous amount on himself and added more to the slickness Sherlock and his own hand had already spread across Sherlock’s anus. 

“Turn around,” John said quietly, pulling his cushion close to him with his clean hand. 

Sherlock turned on his back and let his legs fall open. “It never occurred to me that I could watch you,” he admitted, his hands shaking with the need to hold on to something. 

John nodded, stroking the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, pushing his legs up and further apart. “You need to tell me if you need me to stop,” he said, his voice rough with need. He gave Sherlock’s cock a gentle squeeze and cupped his balls, leaving shimmering traces of lube in his pubic hair. 

Sherlock just nodded, his eyes darting back and forth between John’s face and his cock. 

“Okay,” John exhaled slowly and let go of Sherlock, taking himself in hand to guide his cock to press against Sherlock. “Look at me,” John whispered, needing the distraction of Sherlock’s eyes to stay focused. He pressed harder, feeling resistance, so he pulled back and tried again from a slightly different angle. Sherlock tensed up and closed his eyes in annoyance. 

“It's completely normal, don't worry,” John leaned down and kissed him, biting gently at Sherlock’s lush lower lip. “I’ll try again, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, raising his head to kiss John again. He followed and found that he could distract Sherlock by blowing raspberries against his neck. Sherlock chuckled and John pushed again, and this time he managed to push in beyond his head. Sherlock’s head fell back and he stared at John. “Are you in me?”

John gritted his teeth, trying to breathe away the pressure around him, hoping that Sherlock would catch on. “Not yet,” he managed. “Not all of it.”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows to see, his eyes widening as he watched John push further in, mesmerised by what he saw. Then John pushed his hips forward, changing the angle and slipped all the way inside. Sherlock arched up, grunting, his hands closing around John’s wrists. 

“Okay?” John asked, looking down on himself buried to the hilt inside Sherlock. Then he closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. “Are you okay?” he asked again when Sherlock didn’t answer. 

“Can you move?” Sherlock asked. 

“Does it hurt? Are you comfortable?” John asked instead of answering Sherlock’s request. 

“I don’t know. I can’t really …”

John pressed his hands against Sherlock’s chest and pushed himself up and back out of Sherlock. He stopped just before he slipped out entirely. Then, with a quick prayer that Sherlock enjoyed this, too, he pushed back in, faster than the first time, but sticking to the angle. 

Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes. “Again,” he ordered and John pulled out again, biting his tongue in order to keep calm and not give in to the urge to pound into Sherlock. He waited for Sherlock’s words before every single thrust, and Sherlock soon began losing focus, growing annoyed with himself and John when he waited in anticipation for John to move again while John waited for his instruction. 

Finally, Sherlock caught on and focused his gaze on John. “It doesn’t hurt, not really. It’s quite … intense, the pressure. You,” he swallowed hard and John could see his eyes begin to shimmer. “Do whatever you want to do. I’ll be fine. More than fine,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I trust you.”

John bit back his own tears and nodded. “You tell me when I need to stop?”

Sherlock nodded. “Please!”

John exhaled slowly and rose to his knees, pulling Sherlock up slightly, despite the burn it caused in his shoulder, and he made sure that the pillow supported Sherlock enough so he was comfortable. Then he took hold of his legs and began to move; starting slowly, watching Sherlock carefully whilst trying to not think too deeply about what they were doing. 

When he sped up, Sherlock’s eyes widened and John felt the first contractions of orgasm in his groin. He grit his teeth together, fighting hard to not let go while Sherlock jerked under him, one hand flying to his cock, stroking furiously while the other flew to his mouth, catching the desperate noises that escaped him. 

John lost it then, driving his hips forward with a cry. He fell on top of Sherlock, who spread his legs wide enough to make room for John. John came buried deeply inside of Sherlock, grunting with every renewed flash of pleasure his orgasm sent through his body. 

Sherlock arched up underneath him, trying to get him to move again while his own cock and hand were trapped between their bodies. 

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s collar bone, tasting shower gel and sweat and heat. When Sherlock arched up again, successfully moving him a bit, John pushed himself up with both arms, looking down on Sherlock. For a moment he just stared at him, revelling in the feeling of still being inside him, finally inside him. He moaned and Sherlock mirrored the noise. 

“Please,” Sherlock whispered, his left hand coming up to cup John’s face. “Please touch me.”

John swallowed hard and pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s hand, smiling when his thumb settled in the corner of his mouth. Then he put his weight on his right arm and carefully took him into his left. 

“Stay inside of me?” Sherlock asked, his eyes fixed on John’s cock.

John nodded and squirmed when Sherlock tensed up, causing an aftershock to rock through him. Because John had used so much lube on Sherlock, he could now swipe some off of Sherlock’s skin to easily move on his cock. Sherlock gasped and immediately began to rock against John. His hands settled on John’s chest, his fingers pressing against his skin, still gentle but desperate to touch him, as if he did not dare to properly hold on to any other body part as not to hurt him.

“Come for me,” John murmured, knowing that he’d soon be too soft to stay inside Sherlock and wanting to feel him come while he still was. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, whimpering when John sped up, and after a few moments of heavy breathing Sherlock’s legs suddenly tightened around John’s hips, almost pushing him off him. He jerked upwards and into John’s hand, coming with a silent scream, spending himself all over his chest and face. 

John stared at him, unable to do anything else than memorise Sherlock’s face in that moment, hoping he would never forget what he looked like right then. Sherlock looked shocked, overwhelmed by the experience and surprised by the intensity of his orgasm. Come stuck to his hair and eyebrows and glistened on his chin.

John felt himself slip out and he grunted and pushed himself up, carefully pulling the condom off, dropping it unceremoniously on the night stand. Sherlock would probably berate him for it afterwards, but he refused to get up now.

After giving himself a final stroke, he pulled the pillow out from underneath Sherlock and climbed on top of him, settling down between his legs, groin to groin, belly to belly, chest to chest. “Was that okay?” he asked, gently wiping at Sherlock’s chin before kissing him timidly. 

Sherlock scoffed at him before he started grinning. “Yeah, it was okay,” he said, laughter bubbling up. John bit his lip, feeling ready to burst with love for the man underneath him. 

Sherlock stopped giggling and inhaled deeply, lifting John a good two inches with his chest. “Thank you,” he said, wiping at his face and grimacing at the stickiness it left on his fingers. 

John grinned and wiped a splash of come from his hair. 

“It was better than you said it would be,” Sherlock then commented, stroking his hands from John’s shoulder blades all the way down to his arse. 

“It could have been terrible,” John argued. “One can never say for sure.”

“You were careful.”

“Still.”

“It does feel very strange,” Sherlock mused. “Good, but strange. Not like my finger, in any case.”

John chuckled and kissed him. “I won’t be able to look at your hands without thinking of you doing that to yourself.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if unsure whether John was joking or not. When John didn’t say anything else, he relaxed again and squeezed John’s arse. “Will it get easier?”

“No. A few warm up laps are always necessary,” John grinned. “There’s no cold driving with this.”

Sherlock made an annoyed sound, but his lips quirked and John kissed him again. “It’ll get easier for you to relax once you got used to the feeling.”

“I don’t want to get used to the feeling,” Sherlock argued. “I want it to be like this every time.”

“It doesn’t get boring, Sherlock, just a little less strange and possibly a bit better, too.”

“Better?” Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. “Was it good for you?”

John huffed. “Fucking unbelievable. Coming inside of you …”

They were both quiet for a moment, revelling in the heat, the smell of sex, their mutual affection. 

“Should we clean up?” John finally suggested, already dreading the cold hall on the way to the bathroom. 

“In a moment,” Sherlock said, hugging him tightly. 

“Alright,” John murmured against his shoulder and closed his eyes.


	57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around for so long! <3

John felt his legs shake when he finally got up, pulling Sherlock off the bed and into the bathroom. He did not feel the cold of the floor, nor did he care for the cold water in the shower – all he could think of was that Sherlock had allowed him to be that close to him. 

He touched his face, mesmerised by the small smile Sherlock couldn’t hide and the look on his face when John slipped his fingers back into him to wash away the lube. 

Even when they were dressed, sorting out breakfast in the kitchen, John felt changed. The room seemed much brighter than before and even the grey skies outside did not seem as depressing and cold as they had the day before. 

The greatest change John noticed was that Sherlock couldn’t look away from him. He watched his every move, without comment, without any real intention, too, he thought, smiling at him whenever their eyes met.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sherlock suggested after they had eaten. “I’m sure it won’t rain and it’s the last proper day here.”

John nodded, pressing a kiss to his hair when he picked up his plate and mug to wash up. “If you can walk, that is.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s interesting, feeling you like this.”

John chuckled and splashed some water in his direction. “Please refrain from walking in any obvious manner at work on Monday. People might talk.”

Sherlock snorted. “They do little else.”

“The marks will be hard to hide,” John mused and Sherlock self-consciously touched his throat. 

“Well, good thing the photo shoot was last week then.”

“Yes, of course, so only mine is going to be in the photos. Brilliant.”

“I think you overestimate the observation skills of your colleagues.”

“Jenson will notice immediately. Well, he’s noticed your lovely mark on me right away. I have a feeling he’s been watching us closely. And Lestrade …”

“Lestrade would only report back to my brother.”

“Ugh, change of topic, please.”

“I want to see you in fire proofs.”

“You have seen … oh, no, you haven’t.” John grinned. 

“You always wore your suit up all proper on the weekend.” Sherlock managed to look severely disappointed for a moment. 

“Well, I didn’t want to distract you.”

“Right, that is absolutely the reason, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t want you to lose your shit in the pit and accidentally touch me in an inappropriate fashion.”

“You mean like you will do next time you see me in them?”

“Unfair,” John complained, throwing the tea towel at him.

“No, John. Quite the opposite.” 

“Come on, let’s go.” 

Sherlock made sure to pocket the keys when they left the house and John remembered to bring his phone. He knew part of the walk’s purpose was to find a signal that would allow them to call into work, but he enjoyed the notion that Sherlock wanted him to see where he had spent his summer days. 

They walked further along the small road next to the loch and they both shared a giggle about last night’s misadventures. After a few moments of silent walking, Sherlock apologised again for his recklessness. John tried to focus on the way his body had looked, hanging off the roof, rather than the fact that he could have killed himself. He found it helped a bit to think of his muscular back and long strong legs and arms which had never seemed unsure about what their purpose was. He exhaled loudly and turned around, stopping Sherlock in his tracks to kiss him hard. 

After half a mile they took a small path to the right, leading uphill and away from the loch. At first they walked through woodland, the ground soft with moss and moist earth before they reached the edge of the woods and found themselves on more rocky ground. Blueberry bushes and heather spread out as far as they could see and they kept walking steadily upwards. John let himself fall back on purpose so he could watch Sherlock walk. He seemed alright and John felt rather proud. Hurting Sherlock had been the farthest from his mind and he was glad that their first time had not left uncomfortable traces. 

“Enjoying the view?” Sherlock asked and John pretended to look at the loch below them, catching his breath. 

“Jupp,” he grinned. “It’s quite something.”

“Just a bit further until we get to the top. Is your shoulder alright?”

John carefully rolled it and nodded. “If your arse alright?”

Sherlock cocked his head and pushed his left hand into the back of his trousers and nodded. “Fine.”

“Sherlock!” John spluttered, feeling strangely affected by the uninhibited action, as if Sherlock was entirely sure that they were alone. “What if somebody is watching?”

“Nobody is watching. The village is hidden behind the hill, there are no tourists around here. The only beings that could be watching us are sheep. And even if,” he added with a grin. “Nobody knows that you were inside me two hours ago. They’d think I’m just scratching an itch.”

John exhaled, shaking his head at himself. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Relax, John,” Sherlock smiled and held out his right hand. With his heart beating against his ribs, John took it and let himself be pulled up to the top of the hill. 

They were both breathless when they arrived on a small natural platform with several large rocks serving as makeshift seats. Blackened dirt between the rocks hinted at a fire, but there were no other traces of it. Beyond the hill, mountains and glens spread out, reminding John that they were only at the edge of the Highlands. The clouds looked less infinite from the top of the hill, sunlight breaking through them in the distance, giving the view a magical touch. 

“This is gorgeous, Sherlock. Do you come here often?”

“Every now and then.” He sat down on one of the rocks, stretching out his legs. “It helps me clear my mind.”

John stood behind him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and resting is chin on Sherlock’s head. The wind was fairly cold up there, but John ignored it. He felt warmer than he had since arriving here. 

Just when he moved to kiss Sherlock below his ear, his phone began vibrating and it didn’t stop for a while. He sighed and straightened up, checking the multitude of text messages he had received.

The first one was a photo of Jensen and Jess, making kissy faces at the camera, followed by a short text saying _Don’t wear him out._. John giggled and read the next one. Mike asked him for lunch sometime next week, but told him to not worry about anything which ultimately made John wonder what it was that Mike thought he might be worried about.

Lestrade had texted him several times and most of his messages were trivialities. The last one made it clear that neither Kevin nor Stoffel would be driving on the weekend. Another text from Jenson ordered him to go for after work drinks on Monday and that Sherlock would come, whether he wanted to or not. 

John quickly texted him back, saying that Sherlock was the one doing the wearing out and that he’d love to go for drinks, but only under the condition that Jenson would refrain from making rude and suggestive gestures at them. 

Within seconds he received an image of a two finger salute. 

He shook his head and came to stand behind Sherlock again, snapping a picture of him with his face half buried in his hair. He laughed at Sherlock’s seemingly annoyed expression and found it the perfect image to send Jenson. He also sent it to Sherlock, who snorted when he opened the message. 

Then he called Lestrade, who answered in a slightly overenthusiastic way and John wondered just how much he enjoyed the notion that he and Sherlock were together. He told him that the mountains were lovely, that is was fairly cold and that the Holmes estate had fantastic whisky. Lestrade told him to enjoy the last two days, because he would put them to work immediately upon their return and that he had already sorted out all the paperwork for Germany. He ended the call by making quite sure that they would stay in different hotels. John told him that he had expected nothing else and hung up. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him but didn’t ask him about the call. 

“Anything important for you?” John asked once he had read all of his remaining messages and listened to a voice mail message which Josh had left him, updating him on the car. 

“Nothing that needs my immediate attention,” Sherlock shrugged and reached out for him, pulling him down into his lap. “Unlike you,” he smiled against John’s neck. 

John chuckled and turned his head to be able to kiss Sherlock. “Nobody would ever believe me.”

“Believe what?”

“How utterly sweet you are to me.”

Sherlock scoffed and hid his face in the crook between John’s shoulder and neck. 

For a few moments, they remained sitting like this, Sherlock using his arms to partly shield John from the biting wind while John’s thumbs stroked his wrists where he held on to Sherlock’s arms. 

Eventually, Sherlock dropped one arm lower, settling on his stomach before moving to slip under his jumper and shirt, stroking sensitive skin. John squirmed, his gasp being carried off by the wind. Then Sherlock’s fingers slipped lower, pressing against the waistband of his jeans before John sucked in his stomach, making room for him to move. 

“Belt,” Sherlock murmured and John shivered. Sherlock sounded breathless. 

“Do you really want to do this here?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

John chuckled and turned to kiss him again while his fingers moved to open his belt and unbutton his jeans. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said politely and John’s laughter was cut short by Sherlock’s moan when he slipped his hand into his underwear and wrapped his fingers around him. John leaned back against Sherlock, listening to his laboured breathing while growing hard in his hand. 

“Oh god, Sherlock.”

Sherlock used his free hand to tug John’s jumper down and push at the collar of his shirt to expose his neck before he attached his lips there. His teeth worried John’s skin and John arched up, gooseflesh spreading from his throat all the way down to his knees. His hands settled on Sherlock’s thighs, clutching hard when he needed to distract himself, feeling Sherlock steady himself against the ground. 

“Fuck,” John’s moan was ripped from his lips by a gust of wind. 

He could feel Sherlock whisper words against his neck, but the wind and his own breathing were too loud for him to understand what he said. 

Finally, Sherlock opened John’s flies further and pushed his underwear out of the way, exposing him to the cold air and the whole wide world. The thought alone made John moan loudly. 

“Definitely not scratching an itch,” he grunted and Sherlock laughed breathlessly against his skin. “But when the midges attack it will be. Promise you’ll stop if they do?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Haven’t felt, seen or heard any of them yet, so you might get lucky.”

John grunted. “What are the chances that some satellite is currently zooming in on us?”

“Fairly high,” Sherlock said with mirth in his voice. “You never know with Mycroft.”

“Oh my god!” John hid his face in his hands and Sherlock laughed harder. 

“Yes, that will definitely help you to remain anonymous. It’s cloudy John, there’s no satellite taking voyeuristic pictures from space.”

“Fuck you!” John grunted, reaching up to fist at Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock began stroking him properly. “You just did, but if you’re so keen we can always go back and …” 

John doubled over, pulling Sherlock down with him as he was still holding on to his hair. Sherlock quickly pulled him back up and then used his left hand to push John’s jeans down further to give him more room. 

“I’ll never forget today,” Sherlock murmured against John’s cheek. “This morning and now. I’ll never forget it. If I ever feel lonely, I’ll always have today to think back on.”

John was reduced to drawing raspy breaths while trying not to squirm out of Sherlock’s grasp. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered and John strained to turn his head, kissing him messily, interrupted by moans and seconds in which he froze in order to keep from doubling over again.

Sherlock’s hand moved steadily, fast enough to not let John feel the cold for too long. Then, instead of applying more pressure, he loosened his grip and let John slide along the palm of his hand, simply cupping him from below. 

John was ready to scream, but he told himself that Sherlock couldn’t possibly keep doing this for much longer, having shown how impatient he often was where sex was concerned. 

Instead of offering relief, Sherlock eventually lowered his palm and let John slide against the tips of his fingers only. John whined and his hands dug into Sherlock’s thighs again, every breath a desperate moan. 

Despite it all, he could feel that he was close – in fact, he had been close for a while, Sherlock’s fingers making him dance along the edge of relief while he desperately wanted more. 

“Please, Sherlock, please!”

Sherlock stopped moving altogether, leaving John to desperately push against his fingers, seeking more friction than Sherlock was willing to offer. 

“Fuck!”

Sherlock gently bit at his skin again, pulling carefully, distracting John from what he was doing. “Please, Sherlock!”

Sherlock offered the palm of his hand again and used his thumb to rub John’s frenulum, pushing back his foreskin with his index finger. John felt all of his focus rush to that spot in his body and not even Sherlock’s lips or teeth could draw his attention away from were Sherlock’s fingers tortured him. 

For a few moments, John simply didn’t know what to do with himself. He was desperate for release, his legs shaking, his hands digging hard into Sherlock’s thighs and yet he held back, unwilling to let Sherlock get away with teasing him so mercilessly. 

“To see you like this,” Sherlock murmured, finally dragging John’s attention away from the burning heat in his cock. “I wanted this. I fantasised about it. The night before the race. I never came like I did that night. Well, before you.”

John found it difficult to breathe. 

“It’s what I thought about that first night, when you woke up and caught me.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, hanging on to the last bit of willpower that kept him from letting go.

Sherlock wrapped his free arm around his body again, holding him tightly. “I love you, John.”

That did it. John could feel something inside of him break free and with a cry he let go, feeling himself being thrown back and forth in waves of pleasure that he felt all the way down to his toes. 

He felt utterly boneless when he finally stopped shaking, his hands still on Sherlock’s thighs, but not really holding on to him anymore. He felt that if Sherlock let go of him now, he’d slip to the ground. 

But Sherlock held him, until his mind cleared and he could control his breathing again. He looked down on himself and saw that, for once, Sherlock had not caught any of his come in his hand, but had let him spill over onto the ground between their legs. 

“An offering for the gods of old?” John asked, his voice not quite under his control. Sherlock chuckled and kissed his neck again, reminding John that he had bitten him at some point. He reached up and found the slightly sore spot. “You just had to go and leave another mark, didn’t you?” John complained half heartedly while he was secretly glad that Sherlock felt so possessive. 

“Payback for my thighs.”

“What about your thighs?” John sat up straight and wiped at his cock before he tucked himself back into his jeans. 

“I’ll show you when we’re home.”

“No, wait. How?” John looked at his face long and hard. Sherlock’s cheekbones were lightly pink, but it could have been the cold. The light glaze on his eyes could easily come from the wind, but somehow John doubted that it was only the weather that affected him.

“Did you just come in your knickers?” John asked, his hands already unbuckling Sherlock’s belt. 

Sherlock looked slightly annoyed and rolled his eyes, but John wasn’t sure whether it was because of his choice of words or because Sherlock had been found out. 

“Up,” he ordered, and Sherlock reluctantly stood up. Aware of his own come on the ground, John ushered him to one of the other rocks before getting down to one knee. He yanked his trousers down to his calves and grinned at the impressive, dark spot in Sherlock’s underwear. He pushed his thumb against it and Sherlock squirmed. “Did you really want to walk all the way back in these?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

John carefully pulled his pants down, taking stock of the mess. “You need to take them off,” John decided, already pulling on Sherlock’s shoe laces. Only then did his eyes fall on Sherlock’s thighs. He could see the already darkening marks where his fingers had desperately clung to his legs. It was obvious that the bruises would get much darker. “Shit, I’m sorry!” he gently touched his legs, hoping that he had not hurt Sherlock too much. It was the second time his fingers had left marks on his thighs.

“It was worth it,” Sherlock smirked and toed off his shoes. Then he sat down again and helped John to take off his trousers and pants. 

“Spread,” John ordered and used the soiled underwear to clean him up as much as he could, but it wasn’t very effective. He was incredibly glad now that so far no insects had taken any interest in them.

“There’s a brook down that way,” Sherlock commented when John began using his saliva to achieve a better result. 

“Right,” John rose and began walking downhill, but Sherlock was quick to slip into his shoes and follow him. Wearing only shoes and socks on his lower half while his body was fully dressed from his middle upwards, his trousers hanging over his arm like a waiter’s towel, John couldn’t help but laugh at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s expression remained stoic but he did chuckle when John smacked his arse when he passed him. 

The brook was almost invisible, but Sherlock followed the bright sound of running water and found a small pool in which the crystal clear water had collected. He knelt down on the moist ground and dipped his hand in, drinking several cupped handfuls. John noticed that he was also quite thirsty and copied Sherlock, who looked a tiny bit satisfied, despite the fact that the cold wind clung to his naked skin. 

When they had finished drinking, John dipped Sherlock’s soiled pants in the pool and washed them out. Then he ordered Sherlock to stand next to him. 

Grinning at the small cry that escaped Sherlock when the ice cold fabric touched him, John managed to clean him up much better than he had before. When he dipped the pants into the pool again and then wrapped them around Sherlock’s soft cock, Sherlock swore loudly and swatted his hand and his underwear away. It landed in the dirt with a wet slapping sound. They both giggled. 

Sherlock found a dry place to take off his shoes and pull on his trousers again. Then he tied his shoes again and pulled out his phone. 

“What are you doing?” John asked, washing Sherlock’s pants out again. 

“Checking my text messages.”

“What did you do before?”

Sherlock flashed him a grin. “I read up on delayed orgasms and edging.”


	58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

They found a dry place to sit, back to back, each with their phone in hand, Sherlock communicating with the outside world while John took photos of the lovely view. The sun was breaking through the clouds move frequently now, warming their faces, and the wind had calmed down. John had flattened out Sherlock’s underwear on one of the rocks in the hopes of them drying before they had to go. After about an hour, John’s stomach rumbled and Sherlock stretched only to slap his own cheek and then his wrist. “They have found us. Should we go back?”

“Yes, you wanted to show me the rest of the house in daylight,” John reminded him.

“Right,” Sherlock didn’t move. 

“And we should have lunch.”

“We could go out.”

“We are out.”

“Quite out, yes,” Sherlock chuckled and John laughed. “I meant the pub,” he explained.

“I know you did. But we still have food we can cook.” John increased the pressure of his back against Sherlock's, who pushed back before he relaxed and gave a content sigh.

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

“Yes, and a fire.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock let his head fall back so it rested on John’s shoulder, closing his eyes against the sun. 

“We’re never going to leave here, are we?” John chuckled and pressed his own cheek against Sherlock’s. 

“I can’t stop thinking about earlier,” Sherlock admitted, all playfulness had left his voice.

“You’re an impressionable young man,” John joked, but he placed his hand on Sherlock’s, squeezing gently. 

“I can’t believe I had it so wrong.”

“Blame Mycroft.”

“I usually do, for everything. But you? This? I really had no idea.”

“You mean sex?”

“Well, yes, that and you. What you are to me. Both together is just …”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” John smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. 

Sherlock turned his head and kissed John’s cheek and when John turned his face towards him, his lips. It was uncomfortable, but neither of them cared for a while.

John finally broke the kiss and scrambled to his feet, pulling Sherlock up who seemed reluctant to get up. 

“Race you to the house!” John suggested and took off, back to the top of the hill, almost falling when his legs decided that running wasn’t a good follow up to sitting on the ground for that long. Sherlock laughed and jogged after him, picking up his damp pants on the way. “You do know that it’s three miles?”

John turned around himself once, grinning at Sherlock before reaching the top and disappearing from sight. Sherlock sighed and sped up, finding that John had done good on his suggestion and was already quite far away. He caught up with him in the woods, where John leaned against a tree, desperately trying to catch his breath. A high pitched giggle escaped him when Sherlock threw himself against the same tree, pressing his hands against his chest, laughing at the silliness of it all. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John giggled and Sherlock pushed himself away from the tree and pulled John into a breathless kiss. 

They were still breathless when they parted again, holding on to each other to stay upright. “I need to start exercising again,” John admitted, pressing his hand against his stinging side. 

“Is your shoulder alright?” Sherlock asked, carefully stroking John’s chest. 

“I think so,” John shrugged. He hadn’t felt it while he had run and even now he was relatively pain free. “I hope it stays that way.”

“Yes, me too,” Sherlock admitted. Then he took off, but only ran for a few yards before he stopped and turned around to wait for John who had not wasted any time running after him, but had simply enjoyed the view. He grinned and finally followed Sherlock, taking his hand when he reached him. For a long time, neither of them said anything, but John could feel Sherlock's quick heartbeat in his hand. When he looked up and saw that Sherlock was looking at him with wonder in his eyes he couldn't help but smile at him widely, feeling butterflies to intense he wondered whether it was at all normal, no matter how strongly he felt about him. 

When they reached the house, they were both thirsty and tired and John collapsed into a kitchen chair. 

“I really don’t want to go back,” John said when Sherlock placed a steaming mug in front of him. “Can’t we just stay here?”

Sherlock smiled and didn’t answer, knowing that John did not expect an answer. 

“I need a nap. But I’m hungry.” John dropped his head on his arms and closed his eyes. “Can you wake me up in half an hour?”

“You’re not sleeping here,” Sherlock said sternly and John lifted his head again to look at him. 

“Where do I sleep?” 

“Bedroom?”

“The bed is filthy,” John complained and Sherlock couldn’t force back a smirk. 

“Sitting room, then?”

“The couch?” John was already up, sipping on his tea, ready to walk upstairs. 

Sherlock sighed and got up, leading the way to the sitting room. He threw some cushions off the couch and fluffed one up so John could rest his head on it. Then he took a spread from the back of the chair they had made love on the day before and covered John with it. John smiled and reached out for Sherlock, pulling him down into a small kiss. “Thank you. I’ll make lunch after. I just need to close my eyes for a moment.”

He was asleep before he had let go of Sherlock. 

The sound of crackling ambers woke him up. He felt warm and the smell of bee’s wax was as strong as it had been when he had first entered the older house. Sherlock sat across from him, looking at what John thought was a family photo album. 

“Hey,” he smiled, turning on his side with a yawn. 

Sherlock immediately closed the album and put it down on the table. “Lunch?”

“Did you cook?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock smirked. He disappeared and returned with two bowls filled to the brim with stew. 

“Wait, we didn’t have any meat left over …”

“Charlotte came by while you slept. Seems like the Hudson’s cannot stop mothering me.”

“That’s very kind of her,” John rubbed his face. He knew he had slept longer than half an hour, but it was still light out. 

“Come on, eat.”

John crossed his legs and began wolfing down the stew. It was delicious, but John was too hungry to properly salvage the taste. 

“There’s more,” Sherlock said with a slightly impressed expression and took the empty bowl from John. When he left the room, John reached out and pulled the album to his side of the coffee table and opened it. It was a photo album of Sherlock’s childhood. He was itching to turn the first page, but it felt wrong to do it without invitation. 

“Eat first,” Sherlock said from the door. “You can look at it later.”

“Any unfortunate puberty haircut photos of you in there?” John grinned and Sherlock pushed the album away from him and placed the refilled bowl in his hands. “In exchange, I want to see yours,” he then said, settling down in his chair again to finish his own bowl. 

So Sherlock finally broached the subject of his family and began asking questions. John wondered how long Sherlock had wanted to know before finding a way of asking without being obvious about it. “I don’t have an album,” John admitted. 

“Really?”

“No, my sister …”

“Harriet.”

“How ? … ah, Mycroft. God, I seriously …”

“Nothing you can say about him has not already been said by me,” Sherlock clarified. 

“My sister might have it.”

“You never speak of your family,” Sherlock momentarily hid his face behind the bowl as he drank the final drops of the broth. 

“It’s … painful. Boring, mostly, but painful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s … fine, I guess. I just never …,” he felt angry with himself for denying Sherlock a proper answer. 

“I’ll just ask Jenson for early career photos. I’m sure your nineties hair was glorious.” Sherlock gave him a small smile and John felt even worse. 

“No. I’ll get you some photos. And my hair was indeed glorious,” he put down the bowl and raised his chin. “My father always wanted me to be a doctor or a barrister or something useful. He hated that I loved cars and that I spent my free time constructing things. I mean, it was alright when something in the flat needed fixing, but cars or bikes? Waste of time. I also wasted my career, apparently.”

“John,” Sherlock held out his hands in a peace offering. “You really don’t have to.”

“Mum sometimes asked what I wanted from life, and she was the only one who knew that I never changed my answer. I did for my dad, every now and then I told him that I wanted what he wanted, just to make him stop patronising me. When he died, he made me promise that I would become a decent man with a decent career and a wife and two wonderful children and a house in Zone 3. I did promise and Harriet and mum were both there and they knew that I lied to him. They never forgave me for it. When mum died, she said she was disappointed that I hadn’t stood up to him and Harriet never shuts up about it. Whenever I see her, she drinks and then she starts talking about how I disappointed them both. Christmas is usually a blast.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly and pushed the album back towards him. “Tell me about Christmas dinners,” he rolled his eyes and John could very vividly imagine the pain of it all. “You don’t talk about it because you don’t really feel guilty,” Sherlock said quietly. “You think you should, but you don’t.”

John looked at him, frowning hard at his suggestion. Was it that simple? 

“If you really felt like they had a right to be disappointed in you, you wouldn’t have looked like this on the podium during the ceremony. You were happy, truly happy. You were where you should be, where you deserved to be.”

John leaned back, breathing against the tightness in his throat. 

“Your mother should have spoken up for you. If she never did she cannot go and blame you for something that you did to save your father some pain. Everyone would have lied. And your sister? She drinks and then makes you feel responsible? That’s atrocious.”

“She thinks I’ll never really know what I want.”

“But you do.”

“It’s not just the work. She does not accept that I … like both men and women.”

Sherlock frowned deeply. “And why does that concern her at all?”

“She likes women. Exclusively. She thinks it’s a sign of immaturity to not be sure.”

“But you are sure, aren’t you?”

John shrugged. “I’m not expecting her to understand, but to be tolerated, at least …”

“I’m sorry.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “Well, your parents weren’t exactly model parents either. And that brother of yours? At least Harry doesn’t spy on me and my friends.”

“Mycroft is everything you think he is, but he is my brother. He took care of me even when I made it impossible for him to do so. I know it’s all wrong, but he can’t help it.”

“Do you think Harry is trying to blame me for something that she did?”

“The drink or the women?”

“Both, I guess?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe she feels that she should have spoken up for you, too?”

John let that notion sink in for a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t want to think about any of this. I do want to look at your baby photos.”

Sherlock smiled and got up, waiting until John had made room for him on the couch. “Most of these weren’t taken by family members,” Sherlock explained. 

John quickly kissed Sherlock before he opened the album, hoping that he could draw their conversation away from disappointments. The first photos were of a grey eyed, dark blond haired boy who looked too serious for a child his age. 

“You were quite a looker as a baby,” John grinned and turned the page. Sherlock was older now, his hair darker. He wore striped pyjamas and played with cars on his carpet. He was engrossed in his play and John could see that he used the pattern of the carpet as a race track. 

“I used to have one of those street carpets for my match box cars,” he said quietly.

“The carpet is actually quite close to Monza’s track,” Sherlock smiled. “Boring, but good to practice strategies on.” John looked up, marvelling at the genius sitting next to him, one tactile hand splayed across his back, his thumb unconsciously stroking him through layers of fabric. "You're amazing," he said quietly before he looked down again, feeling Sherlock's intense eyes on his face. 

The next few pages showed Sherlock in his school uniform, in what appeared to be a fencing outfit and on a small stage, standing very straight with a violin under his chin. John had to turn four more pages until he finally found a picture in which Sherlock smiled. 

“That was after my first cart race.”

“You won?” John guessed, only half serious.

“I did. I didn’t smile for long,” Sherlock rested his chin on John’s shoulder. John noted that his shoulder had been absolutely okay since they had set off for their walk. 

“Kids can be cruel,” John said and Sherlock huffed. 

“It wasn’t the other children. It was the parents. They did not speak to me, but they told my father that it wouldn’t do to have me show off and destroy anybody’s chances of winning. That was when Mycroft suggested that we invest in our own track.”

“Okay, first positive thing I’ve heard about your brother.”

“Thanks for not being entirely subjective on the matter.”

John chuckled and turned the page. What he saw made him laugh out loud. It was a picture of the two brothers, Mycroft as a teenager and Sherlock as a very grumpy little boy, caught in a staring contest with his brother.

“You were adorable,” John smiled, gently touching Sherlock’s curly head on the photo. 

Sherlock huffed and pressed his nose against John’s cheek. 

The next page made John hold his breath. A family portrait, obviously used as a Christmas card, showed Sherlock’s parents on opposite ends of a small table on which a tastefully decorated tree overshadowed Mycroft, who sat in a chair, positively sneering at the camera, while Sherlock stood in what looked like a school uniform or a holiday suit, knees bare between dark blue shorts and long black stockings, looking to his right at something that wasn’t in the photo. 

John could feel Sherlock tense next to him and he knew that his little indiscretion had had dire consequences. He quickly moved on. 

The next few pages showed him reading, sleeping, or staring disdainfully at the camera – pictures John hoped he would be able to get copies of at some point, because having an eight year old Sherlock look at the camera in exactly the same way he still looked at people he had no interest in was incredibly amusing to him.

“Who took those?” John pointed at a picture in which Sherlock had fallen asleep on the carpet, fully clothed and obviously exhausted. 

“Thomas’s father,” Sherlock confirmed John’s assumption. 

“What about your parents then?” John asked, hoping that Sherlock was in fact willing to talk about them. He suspected that when Sherlock had said he’d show him the house in daylight, that it was much more an offer to talk about his past than it was a physical tour of the house, of which John had seen almost every room already.

“Do you know people who treat children as adults when others are around but who always assume that you are stupid when they are alone with you?” 

John was glad to admit to himself that he didn’t really, or hadn’t, until now, but Sherlock’s precise summary of his parents explained a lot to him.

“But they must have known. You and Mycroft?”

“Gifted, that’s what the doctor said. Gifted meant that we weren’t good with other children, or any other people. Gifted meant that we had special needs but couldn’t explain what these were, so the decisions were made for us.”

“Is that why you ran away?

“There’s only so many mathematical problems you can solve before you understand that solving them won’t make your parents understand that maths is not what you are interested in.”

“They did let you drive, though.”

“It’s the only reason I still talk to Mycroft.”

“He talked them around?”

“He paid for the track with the first money he earned.”

John looked at Sherlock, suddenly properly conflicted about his brother. 

“And he did ask father to support Victor.”

John nodded. “Hmm, you told me.” He turned the pages, watching an unsmiling Sherlock grow up slowly, his hair becoming longer, then shorter again, then longer only to be cropped to one inch in length in a photo which was taken on a race track. He held his helmet in front of him, almost as if he used it to put more distance between himself and the camera.

“You genuinely don’t like to have your picture taken,” John commented on his defensive body language. 

“Not particularly, no.”

“There must be photos of you smiling somewhere?”

Sherlock looked at him. “How often do you think I had a reason to smile while a camera was pointing at me?”

“When McMurdo took the photos? Or Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock did smile then. “They kept their favourites and my family never knew they existed. These are the official ones. The ones to show to distant relatives.”

“Lovely,” John said drily and Sherlock kissed his shoulder. 

He turned another page and found a photo of Sherlock and Victor, both wearing racing gear, their carts behind them. They looked like a team. John noticed that Sherlock was looking closely at the picture and when he turned the page, he lifted his hand as if to stop him before pulling it back self-consciously. The next few pictures all featured Victor in one way or another, but they never looked at each other in any of them. 

“I don’t think my parents ever imagined that I had a sexuality at all,” Sherlock finally said, turning the page over to an image of him sitting in the very room they were sitting in right now, looking pale and too thin and utterly alone. 

“Why would they put this photo in here?” 

“They didn’t. I did. I took the album and kept it hidden.”

John turned the page and found that the next one was empty, and so were all the others. 

“Did they die?” John asked, wondering why they had only ever spoken of them in the past tense. 

“No. They decided to spend the rest of their lives on their own terms in the Bermudas.”

“I have a mind to send them a postcard,” John said, closing the album with a little too much force. 

“It’s fine, John. They don’t care and neither do I. It’s just that Mycroft …”

“I understand,” John nodded, wanting very badly to uphold the image of a villain he had created in his head, but he knew that things weren’t that simple. “What about Victor?”

“I burned the photos.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John wrapped his arms around him. 

“I couldn’t look at them. Mycroft obviously had his ways of procuring the original negatives, but I can’t look at them.”

“He showed me the one that is online. The whole photo. With you and him.”

“Is that why you said to Sally that you think he … wasn’t all that indifferent?”

John nodded. 

“I don’t know if I want to know.”

“But wouldn’t it help to just tell him how much he hurt you?”

“I don’t want to be reminded of the day.”

“You think of it all the time, don’t you?”

Sherlock frowned deeply but he nodded. 

“Do you want me to ask Sally to put you in touch?”

Sherlock shook his head before he scrunched up his face into a pained expression. “Maybe?”

“Think about it, okay? You don’t have to do it and I will never think badly of you if you decide to just let it rest.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and took John’s phone from the table. He unlocked it and John did not even wonder how he had found out the pin, and opened the folder which held John’s photos. He started smiling when he realised that John had taken several photos of them on the hill, not just the one he had sent him, too. 

“Sneaky,” he commented on one in which John looked overly excited while Sherlock was concentrating entirely on his phone. 

Sherlock kept scrolling through the album, but he held the phone between them as if to signal that John could stop him any time. When he finally reached the first picture John had taken of him in his office, he closed the folder and opened the camera app, pulling John closer to snap a photo. 

John giggled and took the phone from him before he kissed him. “Will you smile for me?” he asked, moving away from him to be able to take a picture. Sherlock pressed his lips together in an attempt to hide his mirth, but when John poked the dimple in his cheek, Sherlock had to laugh. John bit his lip, feeling his heart beat faster at the light in Sherlock’s eyes. Despite it all, he looked happy and relaxed and not in the least annoyed that John took a photo of him every two seconds. 

“Now, think of this morning,” John instructed, grinning when Sherlock averted his eyes, a shy smile gracing his features before he sighed loudly and looked at John again. He didn’t look at the camera, John noticed, but right at him. 

“And out there, on the hill.” John bit his lip hard, shuddering when he remembered how incredible it had felt with Sherlock so in control of his actions. 

Sherlock stared at him wide eyed, a light blush giving him an almost feverish look. 

John kept tapping the screen, but he was beyond paying attention to it. “I’d love to have a photo of you just before you come,” he said, dropping his hand in Sherlock’s lap. “I think tonight I’ll do that. Make you come for the camera.”

A whimper escaped Sherlock and he half heartedly pushed at John’s arm. John stopped taking pictures and leaned forward to kiss him again. Sherlock’s breath was already quickening and John felt him grow hard under his hand. 

“I want to be the only one in the world who gets to see you like this, and I want to be able to look at it whenever I miss you,” John murmured against his lips and Sherlock shuddered. “Now,” John kissed the corner of his mouth and smiled at Sherlock, “I want to see the rest of this place.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I deserved that,” he admitted when John gave him a final squeeze and then let go. 

John giggled at the obvious bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, but Sherlock quickly walked out of the room, forcing John to get up and follow him. Sherlock took him through the winter garden into the old house, which still made John feel incredibly calm and at home somehow. The sun was breaking through the clouds again when they walked through the rooms. It looked friendly and warm, much warmer than John remembered it to feel when he had first seen it in the twilight of Thursday evening. 

“I don’t want to go back,” John said again when Sherlock opened the window of the bedroom, letting in fresh air and the sun. 

Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad you like it here.”

“I do. I really do.”

“We can always come back. In winter. Off season. Except Christmas, of course. But I’d make sure that it’s actually warm in the house. You should see the mountains when it snows and the loch is frozen over in January.”

John nodded. “I would love to see that.”

Sherlock looked at him, a strange smile clinging to his lips. 

“What?” John asked after a few seconds of complete silence. 

Sherlock scratched his chin nervously before ruffling his hair. “Nothing.”

John poked his side and then pulled him closer to him, forcing him to look him in the eye. “What?”

“January. That’s more than half a year away.”

“So?”

“Half a year,” Sherlock breathed. “That’s a long time.”

John smiled and rose to his toes, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “And I expect flowers for every anniversary.”

Sherlock laughed and kissed him properly, taking John’s face between his hands and kissing him deeply and with all the emotion he couldn’t put into words.


	59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys, for your comments and your kudos <3 They are more appreciated than you think. 
> 
> The plot is lagging slighly behind due to fluff XD I would apologise, but something tells me you guys are not disappointed by that. xx

After John had explored the house to his heart’s content, including a very dark cellar which was by far the coldest room of the house due to the ground being natural rock, John followed Sherlock back to the main house. 

“Can we heat the winter garden?” John asked, causing Sherlock to stop in his tracks. 

“Why?”

“I want to spend the night out here.”

“There’s no bed.”

John smiled. “We need to change the sheets on your bed anyway, so we could just take the mattress down here and camp out in the moonlight.”

“Clouds, rather,” Sherlock commented drily but then he shrugged. “If you really want to … but the mattress is fairly heavy.” They went to the kitchen to wash up the bowls and make tea. Sherlock pressed a few buttons on the control box and the house seemed to vibrate for a moment. “The winter garden should be heated by the time we go to bed,” Sherlock explained. John looked at him, marvelling once more at how at ease Sherlock seemed with him when they were alone. 

“Show me the rest of this house,” John asked and Sherlock finished his tea. They started with the basement. John knew that Sherlock had not wanted to show him what was down there on the first day, but now he opened the door and switched on the light. It was much larger than John had imagined, and mostly empty. There were a few boxes and book shelves, but most of them were almost empty, too. Sherlock walked past a few pillars which supported the house and came to another door. He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Behind it was a room as large as the first one had been. It was full of various parts of cars, a handful of go-carts sat next to each other in one corner and driver’s suits hung in an open wardrobe. A few boxes were marked WSSH. 

“Is all of that yours?”

“Mine and Victor's. I haven’t been down here …”

John looked at him until Sherlock pointed at the room. “Have a look, if you want to.”

For another moment, John didn’t move, but then he inhaled deeply and waded into Sherlock’s youth. He opened boxes, carefully, finding school books and notepads, small toys and tiny, self made models of motors and chassis, little rubber wheels and even a notebook full of imaginary race tracks. 

“You really wanted to be a race car driver, didn’t you?” John finally looked up at Sherlock, who sat perched on a chest, watching him explore. 

“I had those things taken away after I failed a class,” Sherlock admitted. “Never saw them again.”

John frowned and got up, picking the box up to carry it over to Sherlock. “This is precious, Sherlock. I think we should take it home with us.”

Sherlock gave him a doubtful look, but John nodded once and turned around to see what else he would find. 

Most of the other boxes held sports equipment, long too small for Sherlock, but in almost perfect condition. John had to think of Mike’s remark about Sherlock’s need for destruction and he understood that it was all connected to the accident. Before that, Sherlock had apparently never so much as stained his clothes. Except for his jumper, John smiled, but he knew that Sherlock’s experiments would have been thorough and a few holes in his clothes of little importance to him in comparison to the results of those experiments. 

The last box did not have initials on it and John had a funny feeling when he opened the lid. Inside were shirts, a VT stitched into the labels. Under the shirts were scrap books, photo albums, letters and trophies. “Sherlock,” John closed the lid again. “I’m taking this upstairs, too.”

“It’s Victor’s, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice betrayed his insecurity. 

“You don’t have to look at any of it, but I’m sure this place will be a happier place for you when you know it’s not down here.”

“I don’t want it at home,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Send it to him. Make it final. Cut the strings, but do it. Keeping it buried down here can’t be good.”

“I could give it to Sally?”

John picked it up and carried it over to Sherlock. Then he leaned down to kiss his head. “I think, despite it all, she would do that for you.” 

“Anything else I should have a look at?” John asked and Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know if anything else is down here that would interest you. I don’t think you want any of those,” he pointed at the corner which held the carts and collection of other machinery and parts of cars. 

“Maybe when I put James’s car together I might come back for some spare parts.”

“Who’s James?” Sherlock looked utterly confused and John laughed. “The guy who almost saw you suck me off on our way up here with his girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Sherlock seemed almost disappointed. “Right.”

“Come on, let’s get upstairs as long as there’s light.”

John took Victor’s box while Sherlock carried his own and together they returned to the ground level from where Sherlock started a proper tour again. He explained who the people in the portraits were, how much the paintings were worth and that he had once asked an artist to paint an exact copy of one and had switched the paintings while the original now resided in the attic, hidden behind some cardboard.

“That is the most elaborately childish thing I have ever heard of,” John laughed and followed Sherlock to the second level. He was shown all the bedrooms except for Mycroft’s. The master bedroom made John wonder again just how rich Sherlock’s family really was. The furniture itself looked like he could sell it and retire right now and live comfortably until the end of his days. More paintings, some of them vaguely familiar in a sense that he might have seen one of two in a book in art class at school, and polished mirrors adorned the walls. The large four poster bed, the heavy curtains and a white dressing table gave the room the look of a bedroom in a French castle. 

“Why don’t you rent it out?” John asked. “It’s huge. You could do a thing or two to support the village, too.”

“Someone would have to manage the estate. Mycroft couldn’t stand the idea that anyone he doesn’t know and trust could be in the house he sometimes stays in.”

“Like me?” John grinned. 

“I’m fairly sure Lestrade has done his bit to appease him a little. At least I hope he did.”

Sherlock led him up the final set of stairs. “I was up here while you slept yesterday. Have you worn kilts in the past?” John asked, winking at Sherlock.

“Not recently.”

“At some point in your life?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was forced to.”

John giggled. “I’m sure the locals appreciated you dressing up.”

“I don’t recall,” Sherlock said tersely but John knew that it wasn’t a bad memory he connected with the event. 

“Did the midges bother you?”

This time, Sherlock couldn’t hide his amusement. “No, I wasn’t doing it quite as the Scottish do.”

“Would you wear one for me? A kilt and nothing else?”

“That would be highly inappropriate,” Sherlock argued and John laughed. 

“Exactly.”

“I’m not a Scot. It’s also too cold here.”

“I’ll take one to London then,” John suggested, ignoring Sherlock’s initial remark and took off to have a look at the available kilts. 

He picked one which he felt would fit Sherlock and then returned to him, grinning when Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, you’ve seen the attic and you’ve seen the roof,” Sherlock lowered his voice a bit, clearly not wanting to draw John’s attention to the roof again. "Should we go and take care of the bed?”

It was easier than John had imagined to pull the mattress from the bed after they had removed everything on it. The real issue was to get it through the door, downstairs and through the relatively small back door into the winter garden. They were both out of breath when they arrived there and John carefully rolled his shoulder, praying that he hadn’t overdone it and made it worse again. “We’re never going to get it back upstairs tomorrow,” he said when they made their way back to the bedroom to get fresh sheets.

“We can just leave it and see what Mycroft does about it,” Sherlock smirked and John laughed out loud. "He'll probably just leave it, too, and close off the wintergarden."

Once they had carried the duvet, the sheets and the pillows downstairs, John returned to the kitchen to fix them dinner. Sherlock sat by the table and watched John and his phone in turn. John was sure that whatever Sherlock had been reading up on the hill was only the gist of what he had downloaded to read later. 

“Any news on Germany,” John asked after a while and Sherlock nodded. 

“Changing the nose was a good idea. I think we’ll be fine as long as it doesn’t rain.”

“You can handle rain,” John said, throwing a baby tomato in Sherlock’s general direction. He caught it mid-air and popped it into his mouth. 

“I can, but the risk of getting hit is much higher. And aquaplaning is any driver’s worst enemy.”

“It won’t rain then,” John decided and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Are you ready to be around the team all week?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no choice, do I?”

“And you’ll be okay with not being in the same hotel?”

“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock said, sounding like he was already working on a plan to get them both together during the race weekend. 

“Right,” John laughed. 

He finished cooking while Sherlock read again, his fingers quietly drumming a rhythm against the table. For a few moments, John got distracted watching his hand, thinking of all the things it was capable of – how gentle it could be and how strong, how quick and controlled and how relaxed and how it sometimes shook. He turned around again and put the food on the table, using the dried dishes to serve the food on.

Sherlock ate slowly, but at least he had not seemed averted to eating while they had been here. Maybe he would always eat what was being cooked for him specifically. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t at work. In any case, John enjoyed watching him chew, balancing his food on his fork while he was half distracted by his phone.

Once John had finished, he leaned over and slowly pulled the phone across the table and away from Sherlock, whose eyes followed it until it was too far away for him to read. Sherlock made an impatient noise, but then his eyes fell on John’s empty plate and his own, which was still half full and he apologised sheepishly.

John made tea and leaned back in the chair, inhaling deeply. He would miss the smell of the old house and the smell the fireplaces emanated, but the kitchen had its own, quite distinct smell. He wondered whether it was the unpolluted air that made him so susceptible to the smells here.

It was strange, because the more he was thinking about missing the place, the more he also grew excited about the return to Baker Street. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time there to properly get to know it and he looked forward to being there, certain of what they both shared. Going to Germany on Wednesday would mean another few days away from the flat, but he was excited to sleep in Sherlock’s bed again and be surrounded by Sherlock’s things. Despite it all, this house felt more like a hotel than a home. 

And he would see Sherlock drive again. Suddenly he felt properly excited about the prospect of having a whole week to get ready for a race and try to repeat what they had managed to do in Silverstone. He looked forward to Sherlock being recognised, to the drivers treating him as one of their own. This time, Sherlock would come to the parties, whether he wanted to or not. There were no hidden feelings to be sussed out and there would be no hiding from each other. He would be able to be honest with Sherlock and with himself and he would be able to wholeheartedly cheer for him and suffer with him in case something went wrong. 

“I want you to take the job, if they are serious with their offer.”

Sherlock looked up, meeting John’s eyes. “They are serious.”

“Then do it. If it means that you get to drive, I want you to do it.”

“Only if you work with me.”

“Of course.”

“Not that I need you or anything. I just want you to be around.”

John smiled. “Right.”

“To look pretty and distract everyone so they leave me alone.”

“You think I’m pretty?” John’s smile turned into a wide grin.

“John, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models …” Sherlock cleared his throat and made an elaborate gesture with his hand.

John leaned forward, propping his chin up on his hand. 

“Yeah, but do you think I’m pretty?”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away. “Of course you are.”

“Tell me more,” John asked, fully aware that he might never be as happy again as he was right then, looking at Sherlock sitting across from him, having made love to him in the morning and having Sherlock fulfil a fantasy which was purely focused on pleasuring him just hours later. But what was more important was Sherlock’s confession of his love for him, and the trust he showed him by letting him in so completely, allowing him access to his memories and pains and yet feeling comfortable enough to still be right there, telling him that he found him pretty. His heart was beating fast when Sherlock focused on him again. 

“When you do this,” he pointed at John’s face, “you’re very pretty.”

“You mean when I smile?”

“Hmm.”

“What else?”

Sherlock huffed. 

“When you concentrate. You get this look. You sometimes look at me like that. And when you get excited or nervous and you start scratching your neck.”

John licked his lips, watching Sherlock’s eyes settle on his mouth. 

“Just before you come. You’re so beautiful then,” he admitted breathlessly. 

“You, too,” John nodded, feeling his ears burn. “Please let me take a picture of you tonight.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Only if I get one, too.”

“So we can have terrible phone sex on the weekend while looking at each other’s photos?”

Frowning deeply, Sherlock thought about the notion for a moment. “Phone sex doesn’t sound appealing.”

“It will be appealing when I haven’t touched you in 24 hours and all it takes is your voice to get me there.”

The change of Sherlock’s expression from disgust to interest made John laugh. “Thank you for saying what you said.”

“I can’t promise you anything. Things might change. I might do something stupid and not get another chance. But as long as Lestrade needs me and as long as you are there with me, I will do it.”

“And you will be amazing,” John smiled. “I can’t wait until I get to see you drive again.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes, the dimples on his cheek deepening as he pressed his lips together. 

“Now, do you think it’s too early for bed?”

“Long drive back home tomorrow.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“You have to stretch first.”

“I know,” John sighed and got up. “A few days ago you promised me an incentive.”

“How can I offer you anything that you will get anyway?”

“Offer me something that I won’t get otherwise?”

Sherlock frowned deeply and John wondered for a moment whether he had said something wrong. A few moments later he realised that Sherlock was simply thinking. “I can’t. You can have everything,” Sherlock finally concluded, ruffling his hair again. “I can’t think of anything that you would want that I wouldn’t offer freely.”

John stood up and walked around the table, leaning down to hug Sherlock. “Thank you,” he said quietly, not quite trusting his voice. 

They left the kitchen to get ready for bed and John grinned at Sherlock through the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. Sherlock had decided to bring the rest of the whisky to London with them and instead opened a bottle of red wine. John had nevertheless decided that he would brush his teeth now as he was sure he would not leave the winter garden again after they got cosy there. 

He left Sherlock in the bathroom to go down and bring a jug of water along with a towel, both for drinking and for cleaning up after. Then he went to get the lube and condoms, just in case. The winter garden was indeed much warmer than any of the rooms had been this weekend and he found that Sherlock had brought a small lamp which sufficed to spread enough light to see, but still allowed him to look outside. Just as Sherlock had predicted, the sky was cloudy, but he could see the pale light of the moon breaking through the clouds, giving him the feeling of being exposed while simultaneously safely inside. 

Instead of waiting for Sherlock to come down, John began with his exercise. It was the first time that he could stretch his arms equally and that his shoulder did not stop him from moving through the motions freely and without pain. He felt as if a knot had been loosened and he had forgotten what it felt like to be able to use his shoulder properly. 

Only when he tried push-ups he could feel the sting of his injury, but he managed a few, making sure to stretch some more afterwards to keep his muscles warm. When Sherlock still hadn’t arrived, he went through the routine once more, feeling delighted by the prospect of a pain free future. He would see Aki on Monday and speak to him about personal training. Despite Sherlock’s loving remarks concerning his attraction for him, John knew that he could get his toned body back if he put a little work into it. He still didn’t understand how Sherlock could look the way he looked, being so neglectful of his own physical needs, but he knew that working out would mean that he would be able to concentrate more and perform better. He grinned when he considered what other performance might benefit from his working out.

“Have you started enjoying this?” Sherlock spoke softly, as if unsure whether he should joke about John’s stretching. 

“I found an incentive,” John grinned at him and rose to his feet. 

Sherlock cocked his head but didn’t ask.

“I won’t tell you. Not now, anyway. It a long term thing.”

“Okay?” Sherlock smiled and closed the door behind him. Then he poured each of them a glass and waited until John had sat down on the mattress to hand him both glasses. He switched off the small lamp and returned to the makeshift bed and joined John in it. 

It took them a moment to get used to the darkness, but eventually their eyes adjusted to the little light the hidden moon offered. Handing Sherlock his glass, John moved closer to him, their knees touching as they both sat cross legged on the bed. Then he leaned over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, elated that he could do it without pain. 

“I don’t know what happened today, but my shoulder is so much better than before.”

Sherlock looked at him, a suggestive smile playing on his lips. “You let go?”

“We both did, didn’t we?”

“I’m glad you came here with me.”

“I’m glad you asked me to come.”

Sherlock smirked at his remark and John laughed, playfully biting at his shoulder. “Cheers,” he held his glass up and waited until Sherlock clinked his own against it before he drank. The aftertaste of the toothpaste made the wine taste funny, but after a few more sips it was washed away and John could fully enjoy the taste. They drank in silence, each of them left to their own thoughts while their knees still touched. 

Eventually, Sherlock stretched and put his glass aside. “Lie with me?”

John put his glass down next to Sherlock’s and waited until he had made himself comfortable under the covers before he joined him. Sherlock pulled him closer and wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips. He did not speak even though John had the feeling that he wanted to say something. So he rested his head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat, enjoying the warmth of his body against his own, even through the layers of the fabric of their pyjamas. 

“Is this alright?” Sherlock finally asked, and John realised that he had almost fallen asleep. 

“Perfect,” he murmured and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s collar bone. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Can we just … stay like this?”

“And sleep?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you tired?”

“A bit.”

“Are you going to lie awake all night again?”

“I would like to, but we have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow and … “

“I’ll drive, don’t worry.”

“I won’t fall asleep on you while you drive.”

“I wouldn’t mind, as long as you’re in the car with me.”

“But I will sleep. Eventually. I just want to get used to this a bit more.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s extraordinary to be so close to anyone.”

John lifted his head and kissed him gently. “You’ll have time to get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right,” Sherlock smiled and tightened his embrace. “Thank you.”

“M’pleasure,” John murmured and closed his eyes. “I wanted to fuck you under the stars. But I guess I’ll have to wait a few months now.”

Sherlock chuckled and John smiled at the vibration in Sherlock’s chest. “Some things are worth waiting for, are they not?”

“Hmm,” John agreed with a low hum. 

Sherlock’s arm tightened again and John pressed even closer. He forced himself to stay awake a little longer, if only to marvel once more at the day’s events. Only when Sherlock’s arm relaxed slightly he allowed himself to drift off and finally let sleep take him.


	60. Chapter Sixty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 60 - how did that happen? Apparently it happens when you don't end your tale with 'and they lived happily ever after' and write about what follows that first kiss. Thanks for sticking around.

The morning sun woke him up. John squinted at the bright light and immediately sneezed in reaction to it, waking Sherlock up in the process. 

He sniffed and turned away from the sun, realising that he had not moved at all during the night. Now he moved off Sherlock, who immediately followed him, hugging him close and pressing his lips against the nape of his neck. 

“Morning,” John smiled and exhaled slowly. Judging by the height of the sun, it was still early. While he would have loved to go back to sleep, but there was a nervousness gnawing at the edge of his consciousness that made it impossible for him to drift off again. 

It was only when Sherlock reached one arm around him to take a photo of him with his phone that he knew why being awake excited him. He turned in Sherlock’s arms, finding himself nose to nose with him. Sherlock lifted his arm and grinned at him and a second later at the camera and John understood that he wasn’t taking pictures. 

“Are you filming this?” John asked, his voice raspy with sleep, even though he was sure of it. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded and lowered his phone, getting closer to John’s face again. “Morning John.”

John laughed and tried to hide his face against Sherlock’s chest, but he was having none of it. He moved away and took the phone into his other hand before he flung the covers away, exposing them completely. 

“Is this really necessary?” John groaned and playfully tried to cover the camera lens at first, before he gave up on it and instead tried to cover himself. 

Sherlock laughed when he saw that John was hard and not quite able to hide it and he laughed harder when he filmed John’s indignant expression which followed this revelation. “I love you,” Sherlock said fondly, and John grew very serious, realising that this confession was now on the recording. “I love you, Sherlock,” he said, looking at Sherlock’s face and not the camera. “Are you doing this so you can watch it when we’re not together?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Alright,” John cleared his throat and tried to tidy his hair a bit before he looked at the phone camera. “I guess since you are watching this, it means you desperately miss me. I understand. I would miss me, too.”

Sherlock laughed out loud but quickly covered his mouth with his hand, waiting for John to continue, who gave Sherlock a challenging look before cocking his eye brow. 

“Since I’m not here, or there, well, in any case, not where you are at the moment, I guess I should try to make you feel less lonely.” He stopped for a moment, remembering that sometimes hearing the voice or seeing the face of someone you missed terribly only drove it home that you were truly alone. He swallowed and exhaled shakily. “Even if I’m not there, I’m here, okay? I’ll always be just a phone call away. And even if I’m not available or working or at the other side of the world, I’m still here.” 

He pursed his lips, trying to find a way to make this less emotional and potentially embarrassing. “Well, and something else. If I’m not with you at the moment, it probably means that I really would like to be, if you know what I mean.” He looked down on himself and smirked. “And I’m probably imagining that you are right here with me, like you are now while you’re filming this. That you want me as much as I want you. That you can barely hold yourself back from touching me and that you’re using your phone as an excuse to not give in immediately. But you won’t be able to not do anything about this eventually.”

He reached out and took Sherlock in his hand, tugging gently before he licked his hand to stroke him properly. The camera remained trained on his face. 

“And you’re trying to be quiet, so you won’t be embarrassed when you watch this, because you want to hear me and not yourself.” He spat into his hand before speeding up. Then he shook his head and turned around and grabbed the lube, squeezing a copious amount on his hand right in front of the camera. He winked at Sherlock before stroking him properly and with both hands. 

After a minute, Sherlock couldn’t stay quiet anymore. Small moans escaped his lips and John smiled widely at him. “Can you feel me? Can you feel my hands on you?”

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock burst out.

“I’m not entirely sure what you are trying to say, Sherlock,” John looked at him from under his eyelashes, licking his lips for good measure. He stroked faster, looking away from the phone now to watch the muscles of Sherlock’s stomach contract with every stroke, announcing that he was very close. 

“Should I fuck you again? Or should I wait until we are home so I get to be the first one to do this to you in your bed?”

Sherlock grunted and squeezed his eyes closed. 

“Oh, you like this, don’t you? You like my hands on you like this.”

A whimper was all the confirmation John needed. 

“I’ll make you come now,” he decided, biting his lower lip, watching Sherlock’s face behind the phone, moaning when Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and opened his mouth in a silent scream. He slowed his strokes but added pressure and Sherlock came apart under his hands. John regretted that the camera was trained on his face and not Sherlock’s, but he knew that he had enough time to get him there a second time. 

Sherlock opened his eyes again and exhaled a loud shuddering breath. He did not stop filming, however.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” John whispered, making him squirm by rubbing his thumb across his head. Then he raised his hand to his lips and sucked at it, enjoying Sherlock’s shocked expression. 

“So, I guess this is it for today’s ‘I’m all alone and touching myself’ episode,” he grinned and leaned forward, blowing a kiss at the camera. 

Sherlock stopped recording and put the phone away before he threw himself on John, smothering him with kisses while groping his arse. John laughed breathlessly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, ignoring the mess on his hands as he squeezed Sherlock’s arse in return and eventually buried one hand in his hair to guide his messy kisses downwards. It took Sherlock a while to understand, but eventually he moved down to his throat and then on to his chest, pressing kisses to his scar before moving down further, stopping at John’s navel to tickle him. 

John was leaning on his elbows now, the sun bathing both their bodies in yellow light while the sky was almost entirely free of clouds. John looked up, taking in the fact that they would be visible to anyone who might walk past. The thought alone made his heart race. 

He looked down again and watched as Sherlock carefully guided him between his lips and slowly let him sink into the warmth of his mouth. Two fingers curled around the base of his cock, allowing Sherlock to take him in as deeply as he could take it while adding pressure that made John squirm. 

Once more John was amazed by how quickly Sherlock had learned what he liked and what drove him crazy. Whether it was because he was already incredibly aroused by making Sherlock come just minutes before or whether it was the excitement of being so exposed, he reached his climax much sooner than he had wanted. 

Sherlock stayed where he was, resting his face against John’s thigh after his orgasm, watching him grow soft. It felt more intimate to John than the blowjob itself and he watched Sherlock, his body curled up between his legs, the sun bathing his back in golden light while his face lay in the shadow. 

For a long while they stayed like this, resting in the morning light, warm and content and sated. Sherlock eventually inhaled deeply and pressed a kiss against John’s stomach before he crawled on top of him. “You haven’t had a panic attack in over a week,” he said quietly. “Why?”

John narrowed his eyes, wondering whether this was a genuine question. When nothing else followed, he simply nodded. “I guess having you around helps.”

“But I was with you the week before and you kept having them. But this last week you were constantly under pressure, faced with important questions and decisions and you did not even come close to one.” He was very serious and John wondered why he brought it up now. 

“Well, you were around, but not in the way I wanted you to be. Not that I really knew what I wanted, mind you,” he pushed the hair out of Sherlock’s face and tried to tuck it behind his ear only for it to fall back into his face. “But after I realised how you felt about me, things just … changed. I stopped being constantly afraid. I actually looked forward to waking up in the mornings. I mean, I did get close sometimes. After Sally, particularly, when I thought I might lose you.”

Sherlock nodded, his expression still very serious. 

“But the driving got a lot better. So much better than I would have ever thought possible.”

“Do you think it’s because you told me?”

“Hmm?”

“Well, when you told me how you felt.”

“Maybe it’s because I was dreading it so much, and then I was suddenly certain and I’ve never been so relieved in my life. I think that relief carried me a long way. Still does, to be honest. Why do you ask?”

Sherlock rolled off John, lying on his back, staring straight ahead of him, his fingers pressed together in an imitation of prayer under his chin. “I’m sorry that I am thinking about this just after … well, sex with you. But I don’t know what to do about Victor. I keep trying to picture how it would be to see him again and just the thought …,” he stopped and swallowed hard. “But at least I would have certainty and I could stop asking myself the same question over and over again.”

“What question?”

“Your question.”

“God, I’m sorry. I never meant to get involved.”

“But the more I think about it the more plausible it seems. And I think, if he did feel about me how you think, I could forgive him.”

John looked at his stern face, wanting nothing more than to smooth out the frown on his forehead. “But what if he didn’t.”

Sherlock turned his face away from John, leaving the question unanswered. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, sounding heartbroken and John couldn’t stop his hand from slipping into Sherlock’s. To his infinite relief, Sherlock immediately squeezed it before pressing it against his chest. “I keep hurting you by bringing it up. I’m sorry.”

“And you will, until you’ve talked to him,” John suddenly felt quite sure of that. He wanted to take it back, undo the pain his words undoubtedly caused Sherlock, but he couldn’t. He had told Sherlock that he would not hold it against him if he never tried to sort out that part of his life, but if Sherlock brought the issue up in a situation like this, he knew he would not stay tolerant for long. “I don’t want him in bed with us. I don’t want him in your thoughts when we are together like this.”

Sherlock turned towards him and pressed his face against his neck. “I’m sorry,” he repeated before he pulled back a bit. “I will ask Sally where he is and I will bring him the box.”

John kissed his trembling lips and nodded. “And I will be there when you come home, no matter what happens.”

A sob broke out of Sherlock and he hid his face behind his hands, letting John pull him into his arms without resistance. 

Sherlock calmed down after a while, but John kept holding him close. His heart ached for Sherlock, but he was also glad that he had reached a decision. It would be incredibly hard for him, but he was sure that no matter the outcome, Sherlock would get better afterwards. Victor could not possibly hate Sherlock after all these years of friendship. If he was a decent man, which John did not doubt, knowing Sally, then the confrontation would be nowhere near as terrible as Sherlock might fear, even if Victor had built up walls of defense as effectively as Sherlock had. But the fear itself would not disappear until he decided to actively face it. 

“If you do this,” he started, pressing a kiss against Sherlock’s shoulder. “If you do this I will race you. Properly, in a car. On a race track.” He felt his heart beating hard and he knew that it would be the hardest thing he’d ever do, but if Sherlock faced his demons, then so would he. “I will lose, of course,” he smiled, “but I promise to do my best.”

Sherlock finally detached himself from John and wiped his face. “You will?”

John nodded. “I’ll probably throw up in the process, but I will.”

“You said the same before the race and then you didn’t,” Sherlock smiled through his tears, using the sheets to dry his eyes. “I want to be next to you, too, when you race. I want to see you.”

“So you’re saying that I have to go twice?”

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly. “More than twice.”

“That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s maths.”

John gave him a doubtful look. 

“Well, once you do it, you will want to do it again.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it gives you pleasure.”

John felt his cheeks grow hot, understanding where he was going with this.

“So because you wanted to have sex with me more than once, you think that getting back behind a wheel will have a similar effect on me?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ve … watched a few of your races. Before the accident. The interviews that followed.”

“So you have seen my terrible hair cut from ten years ago?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t really pay attention to your hair cut.”

John remembered the moment when he had realised that Sherlock’s looks had not been important anymore. What had been important was that he had looked tired and vulnerable, standing in his bedroom door the morning after John has spent the night on the couch. It had been the moment when he knew, without admitting it to himself, that he felt more for Sherlock than friendship. “I would like to tell you that your behaviour is a bit creepy, but I can't, really, because I did google you. And I did stare at pictures of you after they hit the internet.”

“You did?” Sherlock seemed honestly surprised. 

“Fuck, to have a high resolution image of your face was as close as I would ever get to your lips. At least that’s what I thought.”

Sherlock looked positively shocked, staring at John with wide eyes before he relaxed again. “Maybe it’s not so bad to have photos of my face on the internet?” 

John grinned. “Not bad at all, really. In fact, it’s very much appreciated. But you were telling me about your mathematical solution to my fear of driving.” John couldn’t believe that he was joking about this now. Two weeks ago he would have felt sick to his stomach just thinking about the possibility.

“Right,” Sherlock still seemed a bit overwhelmed by John’s admission. “Well, you loved driving. You loved it. Even when you did not win. The moment you got out of the car, you were always smiling. Every time.”

John tried to think back to the days when he had parked his car, soaked in sweat and covered in durst and high on adrenaline. He usually had had great sex in the nights after successful races, and sometimes after not so successful races. His girlfriend at the time had loved it when he was still preoccupied with the race. 

“So, my theory is that once you feel like that again, you will want to repeat it.”

“Like kissing you?” John leaned in and kissed Sherlock gently, consciously allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of being so close to him. When Sherlock pulled him into his arms and squeezed his arse with one hand, he moaned loudly. 

“I was thinking more of the whole … experience.” Sherlock murmured against his lips. 

“Point taken,” John chuckled and rolled his hips. 

“Want to get your phone?” Sherlock asked once they were both hard and pressing against each other, neither of them willing to take matters further, both aware that they would have to get up eventually and start preparing for their journey home.

“Why?”

“You wanted to take a picture, if I remember correctly.”

John shuddered. “Will you let me?”

“Only if I get one, too.”

John nodded before kissing Sherlock again. Then he reached out for his phone, careful not to overstretch, but he did not feel his movement restricted by his shoulder. He turned on his back and unlocked his phone, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. When he did not touch him, John lowered his phone and looked at him. Sherlock looked at his body, his eyes moving across his skin as if he was looking for something, but John knew better. 

Finally Sherlock’s eyes settled on his face. “I don’t want to start.”

“Why?”

“I want to concentrate.”

John huffed and moved closer, grinning against his lips while his free hand settled on Sherlock’s erection. “What do you want me to do?”

“Your mouth,” he said, wetting his lips with his tongue. After a few seconds, he added a polite “please.”

John tried not to grin too hard. “You are aware that the video or pictures like that could likely kill both of our careers?”

“I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

John kissed him. “Thank you for saying that. But consider that we are both aware of the dangers and we choose to do it anyway.”

“I don’t necessarily need the photos,” Sherlock admitted, scratching his neck with one hand while letting his other hand gently tickle the sensitive skin of the inside of John’s arm. 

“Why not?”

“Photographic memory?”

“Of course. How unfair. That and your vivid imagination and you’ll have the time of your life with your own hand while I keep wanking to crappy phone photos.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Your photos are not bad.”

John playfully punched his arm. “Gee, thanks. Well, feel free to not take any photos, even though you asked for one, repeatedly,” he smirked. “But I am getting mine.” He moved down Sherlock’s body and wrapped his lips around his head, pushing his tongue up against him, testing how much pressure he could apply before Sherlock would stop him. 

Sherlock’s hand settled on the back of his head, but he did not try to control John’s movements. Instead, John felt him tense when he went too far and he grew uncomfortable and when he became gentler, Sherlock’s fingernails began gently massaging his scalp. John got so distracted by it that he eventually stopped moving and pushed back against his touch. Sherlock chuckled and moved his hand around to touch his face, making him look up.

Sherlock sucked his lower lip into his mouth, brows knitted together and the root of his nose crinkled in an expression of amusement, arousal and adoration. John whimpered and, embarrassed about not being in control of his vocal chords, pulled Sherlock back into his mouth, taking on a steady rhythm which was neither here nor there, guaranteeing that Sherlock would enjoy it but not grow too aroused enough to come. 

With a blissful smile, Sherlock began moving his fingers again. Only when John stopped again and reached down to touch himself, Sherlock pulled his hand back and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Don’t do that,” he complained. “I want to do that.”

John frowned at him and returned his hand to where Sherlock could see it. Sherlock, in turn, reached out to take John’s phone and the next time John looked up at him, he snapped a photo. 

“Why did you do that?” John asked, pushing at Sherlock’s leg to make more room for himself. 

“You have no idea how good you look like this,” Sherlock said, taking another picture.

“What? What do I look like?”

Sherlock grinned and typed something on the phone. John guessed that he was forwarding the photo to himself. Instead of waiting for him to do it, John grabbed the base of his cock and began sucking in earnest. Sherlock yelped and dropped the phone on his chest, grunting in pain at the impact. 

After a few moments, he seemed to have recovered from his surprise, but every time he tried to pick up the phone, John made sure to use his teeth, or to pinch the inside of his thigh. 

Sherlock eventually stopped trying and pushed himself up again to be able to watch him. John looked up, smiling at him even though his lips were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. That was when Sherlock finally gave in and just enjoyed the ride. He dropped back, one hand on his hip, fingers curling whenever John changed the pace, and one buried in the pillow above his head. 

John did his best to draw things out while keeping Sherlock distracted. He wanted this orgasm to be special and he wanted to have enough time to actually take a photo. From his position, this would prove rather difficult. 

When Sherlock’s breath grew heavy and raspy, John pulled away and used his hand to continue. Sherlock did not complain, but when John moved up, his hand settled on the back of his head again and pulled him in for a kiss. The kiss was mostly messy and uncoordinated, but Sherlock seemed adamant to press every moan against John’s lips rather than let it slip out in the open.

Speeding up, John also took over the kiss, enjoying it immensely when Sherlock finally gave up and gasped against his throat, effectively hiding his face from John. 

“I want to see your face,” John murmured against his ear, feeling Sherlock shudder. “Let me see your face.”

John picked up his phone from the mattress where it had ended up after Sherlock’s heavy breathing had let it slip from his chest. He needed three attempts to unlock it, hoping that it wouldn’t be too late.

“Look at me,” he finally ordered, making Sherlock whimper. He pressed record instead of simply taking a photo and trained the camera on Sherlock’s face. Then he sped up once more, increasing the pressure, watching Sherlock fight against it for a moment before he let go. He kept his eyes open, but he couldn’t focus on John. He moaned loudly with each wave of pleasure that hit him and John kept stroking him until he arched up violently and begged him to stop. 

John’s hand was slick with come, but he still pulled it up to grab Sherlock’s face and pull him into a kiss. Sherlock tried to kiss him back, but he was breathless and preoccupied by the phone John was still holding, so he opted for breaking the kiss in order to look at the camera. John watched him as he just looked, not trying to say something smart or to the purpose of getting John off. He just looked at the camera, John’s hand still on his cheek, his own come glistening on his skin in the morning light. 

When John’s hand got too heavy, he slowly lowered his phone. Sherlock’s eyes followed it until it rested between them. “I hope I’ll never have to use this,” John said quietly. “But I’m glad that you let me do this, just in case.”

Sherlock looked at him then, pressing his face against John’s hand. “If I win the race next weekend I will go to all the parties and get drunk and give terrible interviews and fall asleep on you like any normal person would. You might need it then.” He smirked and winked at the camera before taking it from John, who tried hard to find something to counter Sherlock’s words, but found that he was speechless.


	61. Chapter Sixty-One

Unable to find the words to counter Sherlock’s plan, John imagined the scenario for a moment. Sherlock actually interacting with the team, getting tipsy with the other drivers until Jenson would come along and get him properly sloshed. He imagined watching him from afar, probably with Lestrade making snarky remarks next to him, feeling entirely at peace with the world. 

“I see that you won’t need it after all,” Sherlock noted, taking the phone from him to stop the recording. 

“What? Why?”

Sherlock cocked his head and wiped his cheek. “Because you would be entirely content putting me to bed.”

“You seem to forget that we’ll be working during the weekend. You’ll be the first one to disappear in your own head.”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbow, shielding John’s face from the sun. “John.”

“Yes?” John wiped his hand on Sherlock’s chest, which he noted with a raised eyes brow. 

“This is not helping,” Sherlock said drily and John wondered what earnest point he was trying to make.

“It’s stupidly sexy to me.”

“Right,” Sherlock trapped John’s hand under his own, his thumb gently stroking John’s wrist. 

“Things will be different back home.”

“I expect so, yes.”

“I might not be so … “

“I know, Sherlock. You don’t have to justify yourself.”

“I might not be as … open … to …”

John put his left hand on top of Sherlock’s which still held his right. “I know. I will be fine.”

“Last week was … difficult for me.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Well, I had to …”

“No, wait,” John chuckled and leaned closer to kiss his lips. “Sorry. I did not mean that. I meant to say that I know that it was difficult for you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Right.” 

John couldn’t help but smile and Sherlock relaxed again. 

“I don’t know how I will react.”

“To what?”

“To working under a contract. To have to answer to Lestrade. To know that people expect something of me.”

John shook his head. “That’s not what you are really worried about. You’ve considered all of this last week before you signed the contract.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“You’re worried that now that you are in the public eye, you might disappoint those who believe in you. You know that you are good, but there will always be factors that are out of your hands. You’re worried that you will disappoint Lestrade, because he has put his trust in you once more and every time he’s done that something happened that made people assume that you are not to be trusted. And now you’ve won a race for him, so expectations are high, but they are also cynical, expecting problems rather than success. You’re worried about Sally and Victor, and about the race. You’re worried that we spent the weekend here and not in the garage. You’re worried that someone other than me or you have been working on and with the car, and you’re worried that what we have might distract you, because it did distract you before.”

“How do you do that?” Sherlock looked slightly confused and John kissed him again. 

“I might not be the perceptive genius that you are, but I do know a few things about being worried.”

“Are you worried?”

John thought about it for a moment before he shook his head. “Confronting you was by far the greatest challenge I have faced recently, so I think I’m good for a while.”

“Confronting me?”

“This includes being in your close proximity without touching you, not losing it when touching you, not calling you in the middle of the night to explain how much I need you in my life and not kissing you during the ceremony, or, actually, before. The hardest moment was in the pits. I wanted to tell you. I was going out of my mind.”

Sherlock had blushed while John had spoken, but he did not look away. 

“And then last Sunday. Sitting in Mrs Hudson’s living room, knowing you were gone, and then you weren’t. It seems stupid now but I never felt as apprehensive in my life.”

“I doubt that.” Sherlock said drily, but his blush belied his seeming indifference. 

“Well, I thought you had just overheard me explaining to your landlady … housekeeper … mother at heart, whatever Mrs Hudson is, that I love you and you walked away. I had no clue what to make of that.”

“I might have overreacted a bit.”

“No, Sherlock,” John took his hand and pressed it against his chest. “She said that you would need some time to come to terms with what you had heard. I thought you knew. When I came upstairs, I thought you knew and then you didn’t. When I realised, I didn’t know what to do. And then you became so defensive. Understandably, but I felt so wrong footed, and I didn’t just want to kiss you without permission. Thank god I didn’t. You would have punched me in the face.”

“I still don’t understand,” Sherlock admitted. 

“What?”

Sherlock exhaled slowly and looked away. “This.”

John bit his lip. “Is that your issue? That you can’t scientifically explain what you feel?”

“No,” Sherlock frowned, meeting his eyes again. “That’s not what I mean. I have absolutely no doubt about what I feel for you.”

“But?”

“You.”

“Hmm?”

“You. That you feel … that you say that you …”

“That I love you?”

“Well, yes. I don’t understand.”

“It’s nothing to do with rationality, you know?”

“Because if it were, you’d have called the police and then walked the other way when we first met.”

John grinned. “Not quite, but I would have made you explain right away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was distracted,” John retorted. “It’s not every day someone as gorgeous as you behaves in a questionable way while seeming entirely sure that what they are doing is the right thing to do, even if it means killing the motor of a car that is worth several million pounds.”

Sherlock nodded. “I don’t expect that I will ever understand,” he admitted and John smiled at him widely. 

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because what you don’t understand you can’t dissect and dismantle and explain away.”

Sherlock huffed and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It’s getting late.”

John checked his phone. It was half past seven. “We’ll be fine for a bit.”

“We haven’t packed, cleaned up, emptied the fireplaces, …”

John interrupted him with a kiss. “You also haven’t touched me yet. And currently that’s a priority.”

“Is it?” Sherlock pulled John on top of him and grabbed his arse with both hands, squeezing. John grunted and closed his eyes. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, reaching down further and squeezing again, forcing John’s legs apart. “Come up here,” Sherlock asked, and John leaned forward, scooting upwards until his knees pressed against Sherlock’s arm pits. Sherlock’s wrapped his arms around John’s hip and pulled. John placed his hands above Sherlock’s head and spread his legs a bit further, following Sherlock’s pull. He dropped his head forward to be able to see, but he had to close his eyes when Sherlock lifted his chin and closed his lips around his cock. 

Sherlock must have known by then how much it affected John to see him like this, and even though John was in a position of complete control, Sherlock dictated the action solely with his knowledge of John’s weakness and his lips. 

It was difficult for John not to watch, but every time he opened his eyes he felt white heat rushing down his spine, settling right where Sherlock’s tongue pressed against him. His arms shook lightly and when Sherlock swallowed around him, his elbows gave in and his torso dropped down onto the mattress, while Sherlock’s hands held him up by his hips. The slightly changed angle meant that Sherlock could reach more of him without having to lift his head as much. 

John knew that he was done for when Sherlock began making content little noises as he sucked him down as deeply as he could take him, two fingers curling around the base of his cock to keep him from choking him. John’s hips began to jerk forward on their own accord and while John knew that he needed to be careful in this position, he found that he simply wasn’t in control of his movements. 

For a few moments, Sherlock kept John in this state of uncontrolled arousal. It was a mystery to John how Sherlock could be so in control while he felt entirely helpless, when, by all rights, Sherlock was physically helpless, on his back with a cock shoved down his mouth and John with all the freedom to move. Yet he felt transfixed and entirely at Sherlock’s mercy. 

But he knew that he couldn’t come like this. There was no way to control his hips during orgasm when he was already so out of control. The thought of seriously hurting Sherlock finally made him pull back. 

Sherlock looked slightly offended, but John moved off him, breathing heavily and still weak in his joints. “I can’t do it like this,” he explained, rubbing a hand across his face. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Sherlock asked with honest concern in his voice. 

“No, god, no, Sherlock. This is just too much. It’s too much.”

“May I …”

“Please,” John huffed out a laugh and made a gesture as if to present Sherlock his cock. “I would have hurt you.”

Sherlock, who now settled between his legs, shook his head. “I would have kept you from hurting me,” he said, a cocky certainty in his voice John knew was not real. Sherlock had no idea how intense it had felt. He shuddered just recalling the feeling. 

With a shrug, Sherlock kissed John’s thighs and then pulled him back into his mouth. He had more room to move now and used his fingers to follow his lips, adding extra pressure when he moved up and down.

The sunlight made Sherlock’s skin glow golden, his hair was tinged in copper and his eye lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. John’s fingers scrambled across the mattress, searching for his phone without looking away from Sherlock. He finally found it and, with shaking hands, unlocked it. He did not truly pay attention to the photos he was taking, but he prayed that the beauty he saw would somehow be preserved. 

Sherlock smiled around him and looked up, winking at the camera even as his lips stretched across John’s head. “Fuck,” John gasped, dropping the phone. “Fuck,” he repeated when Sherlock swallowed him down again. 

He closed his eyes, burying his hands in Sherlock’s hair, if only to imagine that he had some sort of control. 

Only when Sherlock let go of him with an audible plop, he opened his eyes again, watching as Sherlock started kissing his stomach, moving upwards until he reached his lips. Then he straddled John’s thighs and began stroking him. John was too close to complain that he would have loved to come in Sherlock’s mouth. 

He balled his hands into fists, pressing down hard on his own hips, trying to ground himself against Sherlock’s tugs. It took him a while to realise that Sherlock had positioned his phone in a way that it captured both of them from the side. He shuddered just thinking about the fact that Sherlock had kissed him for the first time seven days ago and now he was recording their first proper sex tape. 

Sherlock made a small noise in reaction to his shudder, which in turn made John arch up into his touch, causing Sherlock to speed up. 

John felt his orgasm take hold of him, his toes curling against the sheets, his hands, desperate for body contact, grasping at Sherlock’s thighs, his back arching up, lifting his torso off the bed only to fall back down with a desperate noise. Sherlock was gentle this time, stopping when John grew too sensitive, resting his wet hands on John’s stomach and watching him shake through the aftermath of his orgasm. 

John relaxed and spread his fingers out against Sherlock legs. Sometime during his orgasm he must have moved too much, causing the phone to tip over onto its screen – a circumstance which Sherlock noted with a disappointed frown. He picked up the phone and played the recording, making John cringe at the noises he made on it. 

“Oh god, please turn it off,” John hid his face in his hands.

“Can I keep this?” He turned down the sound, but kept watching the video.

“Hmm?”

“Can I keep the recording?”

“Of course you can, if you must, that is.” 

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I will delete it. I didn’t ask for your permission and …”

“Neither did I,” John argued. “Not even with the first photo I ever took of you. Of course you can keep it. But only if you don’t force me to watch it.”

Sherlock grinned at the phone and John wondered why, but now he couldn’t possibly ask to see what amused Sherlock. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled him closer, finally pulling him down to lie next to him. Sherlock put the phone out of his reach and let John wrap himself around him. 

“This was nice,” John murmured, pressing small kisses against Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and let out a shuddering sigh. “We have to move,” he said. 

“What if we had slept in, then we wouldn’t be on our way until later either.”

“I would have woken you up.”

“Aww, thanks for being so romantic.”

Sherlock’s frown was comment enough and John chuckled and tightened his embrace. 

“John,” Sherlock simply said after a few more minutes spent in silent bliss.

“I know.” John sighed and slipped one arm down and under Sherlock’s waist to be able to hold him even closer.

“That’s not … helpful,” Sherlock complained and pushed his hand into John’s hair, his fingernails gently scratching his scalp. John shuddered and gasped against Sherlock’s chest. 

“That isn’t either.”

For a few minutes they simply lay pressed together as closely as they could fit, ignoring the imminent rush to get back to London. It hadn’t felt like half a week, but John was glad that they had had the time together, no matter how much more he would have liked to have. He knew now that he really liked Sherlock, on top of finding him attractive to an embarrassing degree and on top of being entirely smitten with him. He liked who he was and he was sure now that the weekend had helped Sherlock to know that John genuinely cared about him. The fact that their bodies had been attached head to toe without an inch of air between several times during the weekend them made him feel quite confident that it had. 

A knock against the glass of the winter garden made both of them jump. They stared at each other, wide eyed, coming to terms with the notion that they were both utterly naked and wrapped around each other and that there was not a single possibility of misinterpreting what was happening. 

Sherlock lifted his head to see who had knocked on the glass. His eyes widened for a moment before he dropped his head again, staring at John with something like dread. Growing worried, John turned around, not caring whether he exposed them in any way, and his eyes fell on a dark brown goat whose horn now knocked against the glass once more. 

John turned back around and met Sherlock’s eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other and then they exploded in laughter. They laughed until they had to wipe tears from their cheeks, but they knew that what had scared them both a minute ago could become reality sooner than they might think, so they scrambled off the mattress, pulling on what clothes they could find and stripping the mattress off its sheets once more. They still laughed when John dropped the sheets on the kitchen floor and Sherlock placed the glasses and the half empty bottle of wine on the table and they started laughing again when they returned to the winter garden to prop the mattress upright against the stack of chairs to leave it for Mycroft to find and deal with it. Sherlock stuffed the soiles sheets of the last two nights into the washing machine in the kitchen and turned it on.

John remarked that Mycroft might just burn it, but Sherlock didn’t seem to care particularly and started laughing again when the goat returned to the glass front, staring at them in a slightly unnerving manner. Back inside, Sherlock turned off the heat of the winter garden while John decided to not give into the temptation of believing that Mycroft had sent the goat to spy on them. 

He told him anyway when they shared a shower and Sherlock snorted loudly and then kissed John until they were both breathless. 

Due to the lower temperature in the main building, both John and Sherlock got dressed fairly quickly after the shower and began packing up. They had tea and ate the rest of the food they had kept in the fridge and then John washed up while Sherlock checked on each room and made sure that the windows were properly closed and no ash left in the fireplaces. Finally, they hung up the sheets in the winter garden, giggling once again about the ridiculous surprise.

John put the two boxes from the basement into the hall next to their bags, wondering how Sherlock would cope with facing Victor, and hid the photo album Sherlock had left in the sitting room in his own bag while he was upstairs. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to memorise the smell and feel of the place. 

Sherlock’s hand settled on his shoulder, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of his neck, and he let out a shuddering breath. “I’m so glad this worked out,” he admitted and finally opened his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to function with you in the same room.”

“I’m sure you would,” Sherlock squeezed gently before he pulled his hand away and turned to go. “You’re very good at focusing on what’s important.”

“Oh, like last week, when I spent a whole day trying to not grope you in public?”

“You did get a lot of brilliant work done on that same day,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. 

John sighed. “Yes, maybe, but still. I’m very glad that I don’t have to face coming to work tomorrow to find you there all cool with your cheekbones and gorgeous hair and your perfect arse and not know that I get to touch all of that at home.”

Sherlock spluttered and almost dropped the box he had been carrying towards the back door. Then he cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened. John grinned widely as he picked up the other box and followed him.

Once they had packed everything into the car, Sherlock went back inside to switch on the alarm system and finally returned, carrying his Oxford jumper under his arm. “In case you get cold on the ride home,” he said nonchalantly and pressed it into John’s arms. 

Staring at it and then Sherlock for a few seconds, John took off his jacket and pulled it on. “Thank you, that’s very considerate of you.” Sherlock simply nodded at him and then got into the car. John took one last sweeping look at the house and got behind the wheel, steering the car towards the village.

He parked in front of the shop, which had a sign in the door which announced that the shop was currently closed, hoping to be able to say good bye to Mrs Hudson’s sister or Thomas and his lovely wife, but the village seemed deserted. 

“They’re in church,” Sherlock explained. 

“Is that why you wanted to leave early, so you wouldn’t have to say good bye?” John asked and gently tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear only to watch it fall free again a second later. 

“I’ll write a note,” he decided, obviously understanding that John was very willing to wait until the service would be over if he did not find an alternative. So Sherlock dug out a sheet of paper from his bag and scribbled a few lines. Then he handed it to John. “You’re better at this than I am.”

John read Sherlock’s note with a smile tugging at his lips. _Thank you for coming by and bringing us food. John and I enjoyed the stay. Mycroft will be back for Christmas, as always. Best, SH._

John took the pen from him and continued. He explicitly thanked Charlotte, Thomas and Jenn for the kindness they had shown Sherlock and for letting them both know that they were welcome here. He ended the note, writing that he hoped to return soon and get them to know a bit better and maybe spend more time to see more of the village itself.

Sherlock did not read the note when he took it from John, but he folded it and walked over to the shop and simply opened the door. John stared, realising just how ridiculous the entire security system of the Holmes estate seemed in the context of a village in which the shop was kept unlocked while everyone was in church. Sherlock returned with a brown paper bag which had their initials written on it in large letters. Sherlock got back into the car before he looked inside of it. “She made us sandwiches,” Sherlock said, looking embarrassed, as if his mother had straightened his collar while he stood among his peers. 

John just smiled and gently stroked his cheek with his thumb before starting the car and drove south.


	62. Chapter Sixty-Two

John forced himself to concentrate on his driving. Once he reached the motorway, he consciously sped up, overtook cars carefully but confidently, and listened to the noises the car made when he changed gears. If he ever wanted to get back into racing, he would need to feel connected to the car again. 

Sherlock stared at his phone, but John knew that he was not wholly concentrating on what he was reading. Suddenly, a car swerved to the right lane just in front of him and he had to hit the brakes harder than he had anticipated. For a moment, John felt his vision go blurry and he gasped for air, but then the weight of Sherlock’s hand settled on his thigh and he changed lanes without signalling, causing the cars on the left lane to honk at him. 

“Fuck,” he cursed quietly. “I’m sorry, I did not expect him to just …”

“Want to stop?” Sherlock asked, squeezing John’s thigh a little harder. 

“No. I’m fine. I’m fine.” John forced himself to take slow breaths and eventually calmed down again. 

Sherlock’s hand remained where it was and John allowed himself to focus on that for a while until he returned his thoughts to his own reactions. “You did well,” Sherlock eventually said. “He did not indicate that he was going to change lanes and he obviously did not see you. Anybody would be shaken.”

“Thank you,” John said and gently squeezed his hand. 

“Your instincts are intact and your reaction time is astonishing,” Sherlock continued after a while. “I think if you relaxed and trusted yourself a little more, you would easily be able to race again.”

“I just want to get us home alive for now,” John shot back, suddenly angry, and Sherlock nodded quickly, pulling his hand back.

“Of course.” He turned his attention back to his phone and John tried to relax, despite the cold he now felt where Sherlock’s hand had been only a moment before. He took slow breaths and dropped his shoulders, resting his hands on the steering wheel rather than holding tightly on to it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get loud.”

“You didn’t really.” Sherlock said very quietly.

“I’m just annoyed that I still can’t just be normal. That things like this throw me off.”

“You don’t have to apologise.”

“You were trying to help.”

“And didn’t succeed, obviously.”

“No, Sherlock,” John looked at him with wide eyes. “I’m just not ready to hear it yet. What you said was very sweet.”

“Merely an observation.”

“It’s not easy to trust myself when I don’t have answers to where I went wrong in the first place.”

“Everything about your accident looked like a material defect. Several unpredictable factors came together and your car fell apart. It wasn’t your driving and it wasn’t your construction. It was the ground on which it happened, and it was the tree that stood there from which the wheel ricocheted. It was out of your control.”

“How often did you watch my accident?” John asked, staring straight ahead at the road now, feeling oddly numb.

“Often enough to be sure.”

“Did you watch the whole thing?

“No. I couldn’t.”

John nodded. “And you’re okay?”

Sherlock looked at him with a surprised expression. “You are asking if _I_ am okay? Me?”

“Well, I couldn’t bear to watch you crash and …”

“John,” Sherlock’s hands flattened against his own chest. “Could you please take that exit to the services?”

“Of course. Are you alright?”

Sherlock nodded, but waited until John had parked the car. Then he leaned over and kissed him, somewhat clumsily, restricted by the seat belt, but John did not mind much. He waited for Sherlock to tell him why he had asked him to stop, but Sherlock didn’t say anything for a long while. 

“I watched it once,” Sherlock admitted, pressing his eyes closed for a second as if to chase away the memory. “The race, the accident, when they cut you out of your car and took you away. The blood. The interviews of your colleagues afterwards when you were only known to be severely injured and nobody knew whether you would make it.” He blinked tears away and John took his right hand and pressed his knuckles to his lips. 

“But I did make it.”

Sherlock looked at him with so much love in his eyes that John’s heart began racing. “Yes, you made it. But I will never watch it again. I’ve tried to delete the memory, but I have not been successful.”

“Same,” John nodded. 

“People have been known to have issues after experiencing much less traumatic events than you have,” Sherlock said, “so please do not think that what happens to you is in any way indicative of a lack of strength or reason.”

John pressed Sherlock’s hand harder against his lips. He knew that part of the problem was that he felt trapped by his unpredictable reactions, and that part of his falling in love with Sherlock was due to his reaction to this problem. But he also knew that because of Sherlock’s empathy he had a chance to dig himself out of the hole of self pity, fear and embarrassment that had crippled him since the accident. 

“It’ll never really go away. PTSD never really goes away,” he said against Sherlock’s fingers. “And I’m afraid of the unpredictability. What if I think I’m fine and then it hits me when I least expect it?”

Sherlock pulled his hand back and instead leaned in for another kiss. However, when John opened his lips in anticipation, Sherlock stopped, his gaze dropping to his mouth, and he smiled and pulled back. John frowned deeply at him, irritated by Sherlock’s random teasing.

“That,” Sherlock explained with a smirk, “was unexpected.”

“I see,” John said darkly, trying to understand what Sherlock was on about. “No, actually, I don’t see.”

“Things will always be unpredictable, but you know your body. You can feel what is going to happen before it happens.” He bit his lip and John’s eyes automatically settled on Sherlock’s mouth. “See?” he grinned. “You learn to read the signs and then you react.”

“Oh.” He started to understand where Sherlock was going with this. 

“And you’ve started already. You did not have a panic attack just now, even though the situation could have easily triggered one.”

“But I did not consciously choose not to have one.”

“Not consciously, no. So you’re already ahead of that step,” Sherlock smiled and dropped his hand back on John’s leg, squeezing gently.

“Is that what you did?”

“What?” Sherlock looked entirely innocent. 

“You knew that I would be able to concentrate on your hand instead of the million things that could have happened?”

“It helped in the past.” Sherlock shrugged, but John knew better.

“When you said you needed more data about me, you weren’t just talking about sex, were you?”

Judging by Sherlock’s expression, he clearly wasn’t sure whether the answer would upset John or not. “Maybe?” he said carefully. 

“You know that this is part of getting to know each other, right? It’s not really data, it’s just … learning things about one another.”

“Things,” Sherlock said the word with slight distaste, “are data.”

“So you have a mental log book of me? Likes to be snogged during sex, likes Scottish whisky but not Irish, is obsessed with my arse and has panic attacks in unforeseen circumstances.”

“I don’t kiss you enough during sex,” Sherlock sounded both intrigued and mortified by John’s accidental admission. 

“What?” John stared at him, coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock’s mind had obviously just stopped processing what he said after the first few words. “That was just an example.”

“Noted,” Sherlock looked embarrassed now. 

“Oh god, Sherlock. You are doing just fine in bed. Honestly, if I need to be kissed more often by you, then I will let you know.”

Sherlock still looked as if he wanted to apologise and while John tried to not laugh at him, he realised that his anger and his annoyance were gone. “Your hand does help. A lot. Your voice, too. Your presence, in general.”

Sherlock exhaled noisily and a whole rainbow of emotions flickered across his face before his expression settled on carefully blank.

John stared at him, intrigued and amused to see Sherlock’s thought process. “You were still thinking about sex, weren’t you?” he asked, playfully punching Sherlock’s arm.

“Well, you did not specify that you weren’t anymore,” he answered petulantly and John burst out laughing. He opened the door of the car and got out, walked around it to open Sherlock’s door, took off his seatbelt and pulled Sherlock out of the car before he playfully shoved him against it and buried his hands in his hair, pulling him down into a kiss. Sherlock responded so enthusiastically that John grew weak in the knees. 

He gave himself a full minute before he broke the kiss, aware that they were in public, but unable to move away. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s collar bone and held him tightly. Sherlock hugged him back, grabbing a fistful of the jumper and John smiled at the possibility that Sherlock might be turned on by the fact that he was wearing his clothes. 

“Okay,” he said eventually, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to continue standing in the parking lot like they did, they would draw attention to themselves. “Sorry about that. And sorry again for … reacting the way I did.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple and then waited until John had extracted himself from his embrace before he opened the door and picked up his wallet. “Do you need anything from the shop?” 

“Some water, maybe? Tea would be lovely.”

Sherlock nodded and walked away, leaving John to carefully stretch his back, finding that his earlier reaction had made him tense up. So he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to get back into the mindset of the first two hours of their drive. 

Sherlock returned with two cups of tea and a bulky plastic bag. They sat down in the car and sipped the tea in silence when Sherlock suddenly made a surprised noise. 

“What?” John was a bit startled and stared at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation.

“Whatever photographic or filmic inspirational material was recorded this morning might be unnecessary and remain unconsulted after all.”

John kept staring. “You mean the sex tape?”

Sherlock crinkled his nose and John laughed out loud. 

“I think I know how I can make sure that we get to share a hotel, if not a hotel room, in fact.”

John raised an eyebrow and hoped that Sherlock would explain his plan to him, but Sherlock simply smiled into his tea cup and remained silent. 

“Fine,” John handed him his own half empty cup and started the motor. “Don't tell me. I'll take us home, shall I?”

He steered his thoughts away from racing and spent the better part of the next hour going through his mental checklist for the next few days. They’d have to go down to Woking early in the morning, make sure that they got their hands on the cars again and have Sherlock test drive before signing them off. He’d need Mike to adjust the list for spare parts and possibly see to Jenson’s car as well. 

And they’d still have the issue of sponsorships, endorsements and contracts to talk about with Lestrade. He hoped that whatever Lestrade was planning, that it would not add to the bad blood which Sherlock’s presence had brought into the team. Most importantly, John thought, feeling slightly sick at the thought, was that Jenson would have his say in all of this. 

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock broke into his thoughts and John exhaled and reached out to place his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. 

“I can’t. Not until I know what’ll happen.”

“I’m sure Lestrade has a plan,” Sherlock said, sounding very sure of what he was suggesting, in fact, a little too sure. 

“Wait. How do you know I’m worried about work?” John asked, realising that Sherlock had jumped right into his silent train of thought without any clue whatsoever what he had been thinking about. 

“We’ve just passed the border to England, your right hand has been fidgeting and you’ve licked your lips approximately once each minute since we passed a Silverstone ad.”

“We passed a Silverstone ad?”

“A few miles ago, yes. You could win a VW Golf if you had called the number on the poster. I would have, but obviously the chance passed after last weekend.”

“Why do you think Lestrade has a plan?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shrugged. “I have a hunch?”

“Oh, fuck off." John knew he was lying. "What do you know that I don’t?”

“That you are very attractive when you are nervous?”

John narrowed his eyes at him. “Tell me!” he demanded. 

“Mycroft might have done me a favour.”

John kept looking expectantly at him.

“There might be a new opening with ART GP for GP2.”

John wondered whether Jenson or Kevin would be interested in leaving the team for a GP2 team.

“I’ll never be a regular, we both know that,” Sherlock continued, clearly uncomfortable telling John this without Lestrade to back him up. 

“Are you saying that Stoffel can get a contract with ART and you get to be the reserve and that just _happened_?”

Sherlock nodded. “If he agrees, of course.”

“How can Mycroft even meddle with these things?”

“Money and influence can get you very far, if you’re my brother.”

“Why did he do you a favour?”

“Because he was wrong about you.”

“Did you threaten to do something to him?”

“Sending him photos of us on a regular basis appears to have been annoying enough to make him very amenable to my suggestion.”

“And you just happened to find out that there was a seat on offer in GP2?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “If he takes it, I could fill his place for the rest of the season.”

“And then?” John looked at him, wondering if Sherlock even allowed himself to think so far into the future.

“I haven’t the faintest.”

That, at least, pacified John a bit. However, Sherlock’s reasoning didn’t quite. “And you were sending your brother pictures of us? I only remember two that were taken for that purpose.”

“None of the pictures were taken for the purpose of annoying him. At least not solely for that purpose.”

“Were you going to send him the photo of me sucking you off?”

John enjoyed the scandalised expression on Sherlock’s face which gave way to a rather adorable blush. It was obvious that it was John’s choice of words that embarrassed him and not the accusation.

“Thank god I stopped you,” John leaned forward to take his phone from the glove box and unlocked it. Keeping one eye on the road he checked his album, but realised that he would not be able to see if Sherlock had sent any of them to another phone without going into the browser history. To make sure that Sherlock’s wouldn’t get to it, he put it between his legs. “Do you really think that he changed his mind about me because you sent him photos of us snogging, or, well, worse.”

Sherlock sniffed and raised his chin. “I might have sent him the ones I liked the most.”

“So he will like me?”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, to show him how much I like you,” his eyes dropped to John’s crotch but John knew that there was nothing sexual about it. Reminding him of the blowjob photo had not been a good idea.

“No, that’s not all. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t have a better reason.”

“Why do you think there is a better reason than the one I just gave you?”

John snorted. “Well, first of all, the way you just said that only means that I am right, and secondly, you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t just to things for the sake of it. I mean, possibly everything that involves us being together, but your brother? No.”

“You don’t trust me,” Sherlock managed to sound accusatory and John had to laugh.

“You have already told me that you have a secret plan for Germany, but you have not bothered to tell me what that secret plan entails. Then you tell me that your brother might sort out your career without anybody’s knowledge and now you tell me you are sending very personal photos to said obsessive, voyeuristic brother so he allows me to continue groping your arse? Which, by the way, I will do whether he allows it or not, because his approval does not play a role in any decision I am making about us.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, sounding relieved, and John still had no idea what he was on about.

“Why did you send him the photos?” John tried again, trying hard to concentrate on the traffic.

Sherlock sounded properly embarrassed when he spoke. “Any photo that goes through Mycroft’s phone is automatically printed in high quality glossy photo paper in letter format and sent to his office. I planned on visiting his office this week and take them off him.” 

It took John a few seconds until he could close his mouth again, and even then he was not sure of what to say. Instead he gave Sherlock the most judgemental look he could muster and then opted for looking straight ahead again. After a very long and for Sherlock obviously very uncomfortable stretch of silence, John cleared his throat and was about to turn to look at Sherlock but then decided against it and kept quiet. Next to him, Sherlock sat awkwardly straight, his fingers nervously picking imaginary crumbs the perfectly smooth fabric of his trousers and John had never in his life felt a greater urge to make a situation even more awkward by reaching out and giving Sherlock a hand-job. 

Finally John knew that he needed to take his hands off the steering wheel for this conversation and left the motorway for the services. He filled the car up with petrol, leaving Sherlock sitting in uncomfortable silence before he moved the car closer to the picnic area and turned off the engine. He still stared ahead. 

“You are aware that you could just as well have those pictures printed anywhere without your brother seeing them? You could have them on mugs, on mouse pads, on magnets and as a fucking fleece blanket for cold winter nights if you wanted. All without Mycroft seeing any of them.”

Sherlock’s ears were very pink when John turned to look at him, crossing his arms, mostly to keep himself from touching him inappropriately. 

“You could have them printed on canvas and framed,” John added. Sherlock inhaled, but John cut him off before he could speak. “On a t-shirt.”

Sherlock frowned at him and John hoped that his teasing wouldn’t truly upset him, but he found it too funny to stop now. “A cake. You could have that photo of me with your cock in my mouth printed on a cake and Mycroft wouldn’t see it.”

“Well, I didn’t have the chance to send that photo,” Sherlock defended himself and John burst out laughing. 

“And you told me that you don’t like your picture taken.”

“I don’t. But you are in the photos as well.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John undid Sherlock’s seatbelt and then he pulled him into his arms, grunting when a flash of pain shot through his shoulder, but once Sherlock leaned into him, he could relax and ignore his shoulder again. 

“You are ridiculous. I love you,” He whispered these words against Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock huffed, but leaned in closer anyway. 

“It seemed like a perfectly plausible idea.”

John chuckled. “I see why it might have, but you do understand that I would rather not have all of our kisses shared with your brother.”

“He also archives them,” Sherlock admitted. “So in case something happened to your phone …”

“Weren’t we just talking about how nobody should ever see those photos?”

“Mycroft would never do anything inappropriate with them.”

“He showed me photos of you and Victor,” John reminded him. “He might not want to do harm, but by god, if he ever feels that I am not good enough for you, which he still undoubtedly does, then who knows what he might do with those photos.”

Sherlock kissed him. “Fine, yes, I’ll not send him any more photos.”

“Thank you.”

“Bathroom break?” Sherlock suggested and John pulled back, looking carefully at his face. 

“Sure,” he agreed and waited until Sherlock got out of the car so he could pinch his arse on his way out.


	63. Chapter Sixty-Three

They shared a terrible cup of coffee and ate the lunch which Charlotte Hudson had prepared for them and John did not protest when Sherlock took the car keys from him. He fell asleep as soon as Sherlock had found a radio station that played classical music. 

Birmingham already lay behind them when he woke up. 

“Shit,” he yawned, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reached out and gently ruffled his hair. “You fell asleep before the caffeine kicked in.”

John inhaled deeply and stretched. “Ha, if there was any caffeine in this coffee at all. Never again." He rubbed his eyes and sat up straight. "Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I’m fine. I can go for a bit longer.”

Sherlock looked entirely relaxed. He had pulled out his sunglasses, but the sun was high enough in the sky to not blind him, so he had pushed it up on his head, forcing his curls out of his forehead. 

John reached out his hand, needing to touch him, just to prove to himself that he could, and Sherlock smiled and placed his hand on John’s where it rested against his arm. 

“We could take a detour to Silverstone,” Sherlock suggested and John felt his stomach drop at the memory of the fear he had felt once he had understood why Mike was taking him there two weeks ago. 

“Not now. I’m not ready to think about it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course, it was just an idea.”

“Thank you,” John exhaled slowly. “And thanks for driving for so long after I fell asleep on you.”

Sherlock sucked his lower lip into his mouth and smiled around it. “As I said, it’s fine.”

John squeezed his arm and pulled his hand back, rubbing his eyes and face and yawned again. “I owe you some dinner tonight. I can’t believe how tired I’ve been this weekend.”

“Did I wear you out?” Sherlock said, but even though it was supposed to sound cocky, it came out as bashful and John tried his hardest not to grin – but eventually he lost the fight. 

“Maybe?” John waggled his eyebrows and leaned across to playfully bite at Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Most likely the fresh air,” Sherlock suggested as an alternative to his first idea and John had to laugh. 

“It was good. It was really, really good to be up there with you.”

Sherlock nodded and looked at him with a fond expression, but he didn’t say anything in return. 

John smiled and turned to look out of the window, letting his thoughts wander. It was warmer than it had been further up north and the sun warmed the car, but he did not want to take off Sherlock’s jumper. He wondered if he owned any clothes that he could offer Sherlock in turn, but couldn’t think of anything. 

“John?” The way Sherlock said his name sent a spark of heat down John’s spine. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m aware that it is not conventional, but why don’t you move in with me. Properly, I mean. I know that it’s not a money issue for you, but it would be so much more practical if you had all of your belongings in my flat rather than split everything up between the places.”

“You don’t have enough room for all of my things.”

“I’ve seen your flat, remember?” Sherlock countered and John raised an eyebrow. 

“Meaning?”

“There’s an upstairs. A large room that would undoubtedly fit all of your belongings and you would have a room for yourself if you ever … needed to be alone.”

“With my own bed and all?”

“If you want that?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Sherlock seemed confused by John’s line of questions.

“You think I’ll need my own bed when I can share yours?”

Sherlock’s expression screamed relief, but he still nodded. “I’m not an easy man to live with.”

“Neither am I,” John countered.

“All the more reason.”

“Do you think you’ll get annoyed with me and banish me from the bedroom?”

Sherlock nervously licked his lips. “Rather the reverse.”

“I don’t understand,” John admitted, studying Sherlock’s expression carefully.

“There are days when I cannot be around anyone. I don’t speak for days on end and sometimes I can’t bear even my own company. I don’t think I could have you in my bed when I feel like that. It would be wrong. I don’t want you to see me like this – not if I can help it.”

John nodded. “Of course, I understand. Just, let me know, hmm? When it happens. Don’t block me out?”

Sherlock gave a short nod. “If you want to keep your flat, you can, of course.”

“I quite like the idea of properly moving in with you.”

“Two weeks is not the commonly accepted time frame for this kind of thing, is it?”

John chuckled. “Well, theoretically you asked me to stay with you on our first night together. And you broke into and slept in my office after just one day of knowing me. So two weeks to make it official seems comparatively long, don’t you think?”

The smile on Sherlock’s face made John forget the melancholy he had emanated a moment earlier. 

“So yes, I would very much like to properly move in with you.”

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence and when Sherlock pulled up to the kerb in front of 221 Baker Street, John once more felt that he was coming home. He smiled at Sherlock and unbuckled his seatbelt. “I would really like to kiss you right now, but it’s probably not a good idea.” 

Sherlock nodded and squeezed his knee, making sure to brush his fingers along John’s thigh all the way to his flies when he pulled his hand back. 

They quickly unpacked the car and while Sherlock updated Mrs Hudson on the proceedings in Scotland, John went upstairs to have a look at the room Sherlock had spoken of. 

It was a spacious room, corresponding with the floor plan of the sitting room and the kitchen below. The ceiling was lower, but John knew that Sherlock had been right. Everything he owned would easily fit into this room. 

He stood by one of the windows and stared out onto the street. His car looked lovely parked in front of the house, but he knew he’d have to take her to the garage when they left for Germany. She had served them well this past week, but he wanted to tweak a few things and check her over again. And then? he asked himself. Once he knew that she was safe and doing what she was supposed to do, would he dare to test her powers? Would he overcome his crippling fear and take her down a circuit with squealing tires and a roaring motor? 

Turing around and away from the car, he found that Sherlock stood in the door and watched him. “Is this acceptable?”

John nodded. “I think so.”

“Good,” Sherlock opened his mouth, apparently wanting to say something else, but then he turned around and went back downstairs. John followed him, leaving the door ajar as if to mark the room as in use. 

Sherlock’s laptop was sitting on his desk and two mugs of tea steamed on opposite sides of the table. It took him a moment to remember where he had put his own laptop, but when he had found it he joined Sherlock in the sitting room. The first thing he did was to transfer the photos and videos to his computer. He did not dare to use his cloud for it and he saved them in a secure folder before he deleted everything from his phone except for the image of Sherlock sleeping in his office. 

“Can I have yours?” he asked and Sherlock looked up, his face entirely blank. “Sorry for interrupting.”

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “What did you want?”

“The photos of this weekend.”

Sherlock blinked a few times, apparently still half stuck in what he had been reading, before he handed John his phone. “Sure.”

John carefully picked it up and then remembered that he did not have the pin. Sherlock was entirely focused on his screen again and John didn’t think it a good idea to interrupt him again.

He fiddled with the phone for a bit before he put it next to him and went back to his own. He did not have the heart to look at the recordings, but the photos themselves made his heart beat faster. He spent too much time looking at the ones he had taken when he had teased Sherlock. The way he had looked at him made him squirm in his seat and finally he closed the folder and got up. Sherlock sat entirely still, only his eyes moved along the lines speedily as he was reading and John did not want to distract him. 

He quietly went to the bathroom and closed the door, unbuttoning his jeans. For a few seconds he simply held himself in his hand, hoping that Sherlock would have noticed and followed him, but when he did not come, he went to work on himself. He was quick, not wanting to draw things out longer that necessary. He bit his forearm to keep quiet when he came into the sink, remembering the last time he had come like this, with Sherlock wrapped around him and his lips against his skin. 

With a shuddering sigh he cleaned up and washed his hands. 

When he sat down again, Sherlock did not even look up. John pouted for a bit, but then decided to simply accept what Sherlock had warned him of previously. Instead of feeling sorry for himself, he opened his emails and finally answered the mail he had received over the weekend which he had left unanswered, including one by his sister.

For a moment he considered simply deleting it, but then he thought that if Sherlock faced his demons, he would be a coward to not at least try. 

The email was short, congratulating him on his success and asking whether he needed anything – a set phrase he had read too often to even consider to be real concern for him. 

He answered her that he was fine, but that he would like to see her some time after the German grand prix to look through some of his old things in her attic. He considered telling her about Sherlock, whose hair was the only thing visible of him from his position, but then he decided against it. She hadn’t asked him, so he saw no point in bringing it up. 

It was just after eight when he realised that he was not ready to properly think about work that evening. He was hungry and still somewhat groggy from the long ride home and the weekend itself and Sherlock was stubbornly focused on his work, so he got up to make them both more tea and to fix them something for supper. 

Throwing everything that looked vaguely like vegetables from the fridge into a pan, he made a stir fry with eggs while he slowly worked his way through the cupboards, trying to figure out Sherlock’s system. It soon became clear that Sherlock was incredibly meticulous about his work, but probably never even thought about creating some sort of self explanatory order in the kitchen. Remembering how little Sherlock seemed to care about food, he figured that he rarely cooked and that it was probably Mrs Hudson who kept him alive. 

Sherlock did not look away from his computer when John brought him the tea, but he inclined his head in his direction and took the cup without looking, blowing steam against the screen. John giggled when he made a discontent noise at the light film which consequently covered the tables he had been studying now, which made Sherlock look up. 

For a moment he looked annoyed, but then he seemed to remember that it was John who had brought him the tea and his lips formed a half smile, which gave way to an entirely different expression when he looked at John more closely. 

His eyes flicked down to his chest and then to his middle before setting on John’s face again. “You touched yourself,” he exclaimed with so much indignation in his voice that John took a step back. 

For a moment they stared at each other, Sherlock, still holding his tea cup close to his face and John, standing three feet away, watching Sherlock’s ears go pink while he tried to decide whether to just turn around and walk away, or take that cup out of Sherlock’s hand and drag him to the couch. 

“You were busy,” John decided for a third approach and simply stood his ground. The blush was spreading to Sherlock’s cheeks now. “And I did not want to disturb you.”

Sherlock was clearly out of his depth and simply sat there, looking at John with wide eyes. 

“I wasn’t aware that it might offend you.”

“I’m not offended. I’m just …”

John cocked his head to give him a judgemental look and Sherlock managed to look even more ashamed of himself. 

“I was browsing through the photos and, well, they definitely serve their purpose. Though I couldn’t look at yours because your phone is locked.”

“Oh,” Sherlock put down the tea, happy about the change of topic. “I thought you’d have figured it out.”

“What, your pin?”

“You did not say anything, so I thought you had gone ahead and …,” he reached across the table and handed John the phone. “It’s too easy, and I’ll have to change it again but I do enjoy typing your name.”

“Your pin is my name?”

“Obviously.”

John shook his head. “Weren’t we just having a conversation about making sure that nobody will have access to those photos and videos and you use my name as your pin?”

Sherlock rose from his chair, mostly to not have John chide him from above, he guessed. “Well, you did not figure it out. Why should anybody else?”

“Lestrade would. And Jenson would probably guess it right away if you asked him.”

“Lestrade had full access to my phone and he did not guess.”

“When?”

“During qualifying, when I … disappeared.”

“He gave me your phone. I had your phone. And you were … wait … you were upset when I told you I had you phone. You had already changed your pin to my name then?”

John finally understood why Sherlock had gotten into the car. “You thought I knew.”

“One of many times that day and the next.”

“You need to change it.”

“I don’t want to.”

John rubbed his face and typed 5646 into Sherlock’s phone. Then he opened Sherlock’s security setting and changed the pin. “Don’t change it back,” he said. 

“Are you making me hack into my own phone?”

“You can try three times before you lock yourself out.”

Sherlock held out his hand, but John shook his head. “I will save those photos first. You can go and set the table.”

Sherlock stalked into the kitchen where he proceeded to loudly place plates and cutlery on the table. John grinned as he connected Sherlock’s phone with his computer. 

When he opened Sherlock’s media folder, it hit him how much he trusted him. Not only had he handed him his phone, firmly believing that he would be able to unlock it, but even now he offered him access to all of his data. 

Swallowing hard, he closed the folder again. “Sherlock?” he called, “I need your help.”

Sherlock slowly made his way back into the sitting room. “At your service,” he said, smacking his lips. 

John snorted, but grew serious again after a moment. “I can’t just look at all of your photos. Could you please just copy the ones from the weekend onto my hard drive?”

“You can look, I don’t mind.”

John shook his head. “I don’t feel comfortable prying.”

“But you’re letting me use your computer?”

“I’d rather have you look at all my things than the other way around,” John admitted. “My life has not been very exciting. You won’t find anything extraordinary on it.”

Sherlock sat down with an arched eye brow. “That’s a question of definition, is it not?”

“Well, you easily hacked into my work computer and my phone, so it should be easy for you to figure out your new pin. Oh, and please do not delete any of my work files while I’m in the kitchen, that’s all I ask,” John laughed and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. 

He divided the food between the two plates and carried them back the sitting room, placing them on the coffee table. 

Sherlock made a small surprised noise and John arched his neck to see what he was looking at. He had opened the folder in which John had saved the qualifying photos. 

“Some people have porn on their computers, I have your face. And, well, there’s a full body shot of you in there somewhere. I haven’t had time to google one of your arse in the suit.”

Sherlock closed the folder and got up, leaving his phone next to John’s computer. Again, John felt strangely sentimental seeing their devices connected. “Did you figure out your pin?”

“Haven’t tried yet.”

“But you have a theory.”

“I’m fairly sure. And I will change it again. Not to your name, if that bothers you so much.”

“It doesn’t bother me. It’s quite sweet, actually. I just think that if anyone knew about us it would be the most obvious thing to try first. Now, come sit down and eat.”

Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and John swatted at his ankle next to his plate. “Did I interrupt something important?” John asked once they’ve settled comfortably on the couch, Sherlock’s drawn up leg pressed against John’s thigh. 

“I think it will be harder this time.”

“Context?” John grinned around his fork. 

Sherlock gave him a judgemental look and John quickly swallowed as not to suffocate on his food as he laughed. 

“The weather will be less stable and even though your motor and gear box are superb, it might be harder …,” he stopped and inhaled deeply, “more difficult than last week. I had more data then.”

“But you showed that you can fight and that you can win those fights as well. So it’s bound to be interesting.”

“I’ll need you there with me.”

“I’ll be there,” John nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll sit right in your ear.”

Sherlock nodded and silently ate his food, drifting off occasionally, his fork hanging forgotten between his lips and the plate. Only when John put his own plate down and turned around, facing him, Sherlock hurried up and finished his plate, too. 

“Bed?” he suggested and John smiled. 

“I want to do something for you.”

“You made dinner,” Sherlock suggested.

“Yes, but. I don’t know. Something to make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

John huffed out a laugh. “I want you to feel better than fine. I know tomorrow is going to be hard on you and …,” he stopped talking at Sherlock’s wolfish grin. “Difficult,” he continued and Sherlock laughed, “and I want this weekend to end with you feeling confident and happy.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long while until he simply reached out and pulled John’s jumper over his head. John’s t-shirt followed and joined the jumper on the floor behind the coffee table. 

John watched him, his blood speeding up with the gentle touches of Sherlock’s fingers against his skin. But Sherlock stopped there and took off his own shirt. Then he took John’s hand and pulled while leaning back, so that eventually they both lay on the couch, John half on top of Sherlock. For a while they were silent, shifting around a bit to get more comfortable, but eventually John felt that they were both utterly at ease. He kissed Sherlock just below his ear and earned a small sigh. “I know you don’t want to think about work, but could you take me through the track?”

“Turn by turn?”

“Everything.”

“Okay,” John smiled and began reciting the parts of the Hockenheimring, while Sherlock provided the driver’s data for each. It was like a slow motion test drive in which Sherlock considered all eventualities, except for the other drivers, which he noted he would have to add to his mental map during the week. They made it to the Hairpin before Sherlock yawned heartily and wrapped his arms more firmly around John. It was warm enough, John thought, to just stay out here, on the couch, in their trousers and little else. But he had looked forward to the bed and even though he felt entirely comfortable now, he would get heavy eventually, so he made the decision to rise, which Sherlock commented on with a disgruntled noise, and pulled on Sherlock’s arm until he rose. Together they stumbled into the bathroom for a quick wash and brushing of teeth only to kick off the rest of their clothes and collapse on the bed before sleep took them both.


	64. Chapter Sixty-Four

John woke up when it was still dark. He reached out his hand and found that Sherlock wasn’t lying next to him. With a sigh he go up and shuffled out of the room, looking for Sherlock in the kitchen and then in the sitting room. 

He found him sitting by the open window, a hunched over silhouette against the orange light of the street lamp. “Hey, Sherlock,” John said, squinting to read the time on his watch. Sunrise was still an hour away. “Are you alright?”

Once he stepped closer he saw that Sherlock looked wrecked. Whether he had cried or was simply tired John couldn't say, but he feared that it was the former. Instead of asking any further questions, he sat down on the floor next to him and carefully pulled him close with his arm around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock dropped his head on John’s shoulder and wiped at his face. 

“I looked at Victor’s box,” Sherlock said at length, opening his hand to reveal a gold medal. “I let him win this. I never knew he didn’t keep it. He must have realised that I had kept back on purpose.”

John carefully ran his fingernails up and down the nape of Sherlock’s neck, hoping it would calm him down the way it calmed him down when someone was doing that to him. He could feel goose bumps rise on Sherlock’s skin. 

“I did not want to wake you up, but I couldn’t give the box away without looking at it at least once.”

“Of course,” John said. “You do what you need to do.”

Sherlock exhaled shakily and moved so he could actually rest his head in John’s lap while his body was curled up on the floor. John immediately slipped his hands into his hair, petting him gently. “I wanted to sleep. I did for a while, but then my thoughts just would not stop going back to the box. I need to get rid of it today.”

“Do you want me to ask Sally or do you want to do it yourself?”

Sherlock shrugged and turned his head a little and made a surprised noise.

“What is it?”

“You’re naked.”

“So are you.” John smiled. “Did you forget?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Want to go back to bed?”

“I’m sorry you had to touch yourself yesterday.”

“I didn’t have to,” John clarified. “I wanted to.”

“But I …”

“I did not want to distract you and I did bring it on myself.”

Sherlock raised his head from John’s lap to have better access to him and gently took him into his hand. John hissed. “I’m not awake enough.”

“Maybe it might help.”

“To wake me up?”

“To help me sleep.”

“I think that would be the version where you come. Come on, let’s go and lie down properly.”

“I don’t mind either way,” Sherlock admitted and sat up, leaning in closely. John smiled and pulled back once, twice, and Sherlock huffed and tried again and once more John withdrew from his lips only to kiss him forcefully as soon as he gave up trying.

Sherlock was surprised by the kiss but soon caught on and pushed back, causing John to tip over and fall on his back laughing. Sherlock climbed on top of him to get full access to John’s lips while he also pushed John’s legs apart and began moving his hips. John sighed and closed his eyes, tasting the salt of Sherlock’s tears on his lips and feeling the force of his emotions in the kiss. 

They were both half hard when they parted and John knew that they would either need to be quick about this and catch another couple of hours of sleep, or take their time and stay awake and then suffer for the rest of the day.

“Can we please move this to the bed?”

“Are you uncomfortable?” Sherlock asked, kissing the corner of John’s mouth.

“Considering we’re naked on the floor, no, not overly uncomfortable. But I don’t want to have to get up after.”

“Ah, quite,” Sherlock agreed and pushed himself up with a graceful motion that reminded John of a cat. He helped John up and in a repetition of earlier events, they both dropped on the bed, exhausted and ready to fall asleep, if it wasn’t for their erections. Sherlock seemed entirely adamant that getting John off was a priority and John, despite dreading being tired at work, was glad to make Sherlock’s release a priority, too. 

There was no great art to their tugging and stroking and even though Sherlock seemed to remember what John had said about kissing, he eventually stopped trying as it proved too much of an effort. Instead, they stared at each other in the dark, their faces inches apart while their hands did the work. 

A couple of times they each stopped to yawn or to force themselves to wake up enough to keep going, but eventually John let go of Sherlock and took him by the wrist. “I can’t keep going and I will fall asleep in a moment, so how about we postpone this?”

Sherlock did not complain but yawned heartily and then moved forward, tucking his head under John’s chin, nuzzling his chest and falling asleep a moment later. John chuckled and let himself drift off, too.

The alarm was too loud and the morning light too bright, John found, and immediately searched for the sheet to pull over his face and ignore reality for a moment longer. It took him a moment to realise that neither of them had bothered to cover themselves before they had fallen asleep and that the sheets were crumpled somewhere between their feet. 

Sherlock’s face was still pressed against his chest, but his arm blindly groped around for John’s phone to switch off the alarm. Eventually he realised that he had to actually move a little to reach the night stand and with a long-suffering sigh he rolled onto his back and tried again, this time successfully. 

“Monday,” John groaned and Sherlock sat up, rubbing his hands through his hair, which stood out in every direction. John tried to keep his eyes open to look at him. This was what he had wanted so badly. He had wanted to wake up next to Sherlock, to see him tired, unguarded and soft. 

He stretched out his hand and waved it around when Sherlock didn’t immediately react. “Come here,” he ordered, or tried to, but his voice was rough from sleep, so it sounded rather like a cough than anything else. 

Sherlock had understood him anyway. “It’s not sensible to lie down again now that I am already up.”

“I don’t give a fuck about sensible,” John hooked his leg around Sherlock’s hips and tried to pull him close. He only succeeded when Sherlock gave in voluntarily and moved to lie down next to him. They both rested their heads on the crooks of their elbows, two bodies mirrored in their position. 

“I just want to look at you for a moment,” John admitted and Sherlock’s face took on a fond expression. 

John watched him, calmly, concentrating on the lines, curves and edges of his face, the wrinkles and freckles and moles and tiny scars. Salt still stuck to the edges of his eyes and his eye lashes, but he did not look upset anymore, and the tears seemed like a distant memory which the morning light was scattering into the winds. 

He reached out and let his fingers explore, softly stroking along his stubbly cheek and the ridge of his nose, smoothing out the crinkle at the root of his nose with his thumb and dragging it along his lower lip, only to follow the edge of his upper lip with his index finger and to draw a line from the tip of his nose down against his filtrum. 

Then he moved on to his ear, tracing the shell and rubbing his ear lobe. John smiled, growing playful for a moment, and imagined the lines of Sherlock’s ear to be a racetrack. His fingers made their way around the track twice before he dropped off to stroke the soft skin behind his ear. 

Sherlock shuddered then and closed his eyes, his breath having grown heavy. 

John watched him for a moment longer before he leaned in closer and gently kissed his lips. “Okay, time to get up,” he murmured when he pulled back, but Sherlock did not seem to like the idea. He threw his leg over John’s and pulled him closer by pressing his hand flat against John’s back. 

“Not yet.”

“When?” John bit his lip and pushed the hair out of Sherlock’s forehead.

“In a moment,” Sherlock assured him and arched his neck to press his face against John’s palm which had rested lightly on his cheek. Then he took John’s hand and guided it down between their bodies. John smiled at the heat and hardness he found there and Sherlock sighed when he took hold of him. 

“I can’t go to work like this,” Sherlock explained, sounding as if he was explaining a technical malfunction. 

John chuckled, feeling the effect of Sherlock’s arousal in his own returned erection. He kissed him then, knowing that for once he would need to make him come quickly and efficiently if they did not want to show up late for work. Sherlock immediately picked up on the urgency and it took them barely a handful of minutes to push each other over the edge.

Both of their lips were red from the stubbly kisses they had shared and Sherlock carefully touched his mouth with his index finger, probing, as if to make sure that no lasting damage was done.

“Sorry if I hurt you.”

Sherlock smirked and then licked his lips. “No, it’s fine.”

“I need to shave and so do you,” John half-heartedly pushed at Sherlock, who remained where he was. 

“We could call in sick?” he suggested and John laughed. 

“I will ignore that you just suggested that because I know you are not serious.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him as if he was offended, but then he nodded. “True. I don’t mean it. Let’s go.”

Both of them lay entirely still and John burst out laughing after a moment of tense silence. “Fuck,” he said passionately and pushed himself up. “I need coffee.”

When he stumbled into the kitchen, he found two pots of steaming coffee sitting on the table. “Sherlock?”

He must have sounded quite alarmed, because Sherlock was immediately by his side, looking at him with concern. “Hmm? Oh, I thought Mycroft might have broken in again.”

“Mycroft breaks into your flat to make you coffee?”

“Oh,” Sherlock snorted. “No, coffee just happens.” 

“You mean Mrs Hudson makes it happen?” John tried to clarify, still fighting down the image of Mycroft coming down to London to make coffee for his brother while wearing a three-piece suit. He couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“I suppose it must be her,” Sherlock shrugged and handed John a pot. “It’s the only logical conclusion, really.”

“Does she do that often?”

“It’s usually tea. Coffee only on mornings after …,” he drifted off and went to find the sugar in a cupboard. 

“After you spend the nights awake?”

“I’m not doing it very often,” Sherlock tried to defend himself, but John shook his head. 

“I’m not judging. She told me she heard you pacing up and down the sitting room the day before the race. I guess you had coffee on Sunday?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded. 

“I’m very glad you have her.” John poured milk into his coffee and took a large gulp. “Even if she possibly overheard us just now.”

Sherlock stood with his steaming cup in hand, staring into the distance, seemingly caught up in John’s comment on her. Finally, he took a sip and then nodded. “Me, too.” 

They quickly drank their coffee and John took a shower while Sherlock unpacked the rest of his bag and repacked it for work. 

“I forgot to do the stretching yesterday,” John realised when he emerged from the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered. 

“You were so tired, so I did not want to remind you.”

“Thank you,” John kissed his shoulder in passing and went to find himself some passable clothes he could wear to work. It took him a while to realise that Sherlock was still standing where he stood, silently watching him get dressed. For some reason, John felt himself blush and he nervously cleared his throat when he buttoned up his shirt. “Go and have a shower. We have to leave in fifteen minutes if we want to be on time.”

Sherlock shrugged and turned around, presenting John with a lovely few of his back. John stared at him, enjoying just looking at him, comforted in the knowledge that he was privy to the view and, even better, that he was allowed to touch him and love him and be the reason for the many smiles Sherlock had smiled lately. 

The drive to Woking was very different from any other previous trip to work John could remember. He was delighted to be able to return to work after the long weekend and he could feel his fingers itch to work on the car, to tweak and test and fix things until he was satisfied with the result. Next to him, Sherlock was humming a low tune which told John that he was in fact looking forward to the day as well. Neither of them thought about the box in the trunk. 

The walk from the parking lot to the main building of the headquarters made John giddy. Sherlock walked next to him, talking rapidly about how they would have to pay specific attention to the brakes, using his hands to stress his points, looking at John the entire time. John’s excitement about Sherlock’s unusually relaxed behaviour reached a point where he stopped listening and just enjoyed the entire scenario.

Once they reached their office, Sherlock closed the door behind them and looked closely at John. “You haven’t listened to a word I said since we entered the building.”

“I was distracted by your talking.” John tried to defend himself. 

“You did not listen to me because you were listening to me?” Sherlock sounded confused.

“Well, you were just … this, what just happened, is something that I really wanted.”

“Okay?” Sherlock was obviously not sure what to make of John’s explanation.

“You were with me,” John smiled. “Right next to me. You weren’t hiding, you weren’t avoiding anyone. You were just with me.”

“Talking to you helped to ignore everyone else,” Sherlock admitted and John smiled and leaned forward, but Sherlock stepped away. 

“What are the rules this week?” John enquired, ready to ignore Sherlock’s reason and kiss him despite it all.

“Platonic behaviour?” Sherlock suggested and John grinned and took another step forward. 

“Long married couple?” Sherlock took another step back. 

John laughed. “Oh, I intend to snog you no matter how long we’ve been together.”

Sherlock immediately gained colour and turned away, picking up a pen at random and fiddling with it until John had stepped up to him. “One last kiss before the end of the day?” he asked and leaned his chin against Sherlock’s back, hoping that a few hours were easier for Sherlock to process than a life time. He wondered momentarily whether he should be worried about the fact that to him it seemed the only possible outcome of their story. Maybe he was naïve, maybe he was too optimistic, and maybe he was too much in love with Sherlock to even consider that they might drift apart again, but right now, smelling his cologne and feeling his warmth and strength and coyness, he was entirely serious.

“No exceptions afterwards?”

“Just this one.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and turned around. John loosened his grip on him but immediately reattached himself to his front when he had done it. “Let’s kick some arses this week?” he suggested and Sherlock smirked, making John weak in the knees. 

“You have no right to be this attractive,” he murmured and stood up on his toes. 

“Look who’s talking,” Sherlock countered and leaned down to meet him half way. 

Their lips brushed against each other and John moaned quietly, causing Sherlock’s arms, which had, until then, rested loosely on his hips, to tighten around his back. When John opened his mouth, it was Sherlock’s turn to moan. They took their sweet time, even though they were both aware that someone could come in at any moment. 

Eventually, John pulled back. Sherlock followed up the kiss with two quick pecks and John smiled at him widely before straightening his clothes, rearranging himself in his underwear and sitting down at his desk. “Thanks for that,” he said with his back turned to Sherlock, who seemed slightly dazed by the experience. 

“Right,” he eventually said, and, with a sudden energetic movement, he walked over to his own desk and within a minute he had disappeared in a research article on the behaviour of slicks in Middle-European rain. 

“I need to talk to Jenson about the tyres,” he finally came up for air and John looked up from the results that the test team had sent him. 

“He should be in.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Two floors up, room 306. Or just give him a ring?”

“He never gave me his number.”

“Are you scared of getting your pin wrong?” John grinned, knowing full well that Jenson had texted Sherlock before or that he could easily provide Sherlock with the number. 

Sherlock took his phone and flipped it in his hand, making John shake his head in amusement. “Come on, impress me.” 

Sherlock slowly typed the numbers 9774 and John grinned. Of course he had guessed right, but John was still rather pleased with himself. Maybe he would not get Sherlock’s name tattooed on his chest, but he would definitely use his initials for all kinds of codes he could think of. He grinned even harder at Sherlock’s face when he saw his welcome screen. John had changed it to one of their kisses. 

“That’s playing dirty.”

“You could have tried before now,” John argued and blew him a kiss. “Now go and call Jenson and then we can pick up Molly and see how she’s doing.” 

Sherlock simply typed in Jenson’s number, not even bothering to look for it, and John reminded himself of Sherlock’s photographic memory. “Liar,” he said quietly and gave Sherlock a judgemental look. Sherlock pulled a face that made John laugh and he quickly pressed his hand across his mouth when Sherlock started talking. 

It took Jenson only a couple of minutes to reach their office, and when John opened the door and immediately found himself wrapped up in a bear hug, he reconsidered his panic about thinking that he was too obvious around Sherlock. He and Jenson had been quite hands on these past few weeks, and even more so before the accident.

Sherlock was next to be pulled into a hug and to John’s infinite amusement Sherlock gently patted his back in lieu of hugging him back properly. John was fairly sure that by the time Sunday’s race would be over, Sherlock would have grown used to Jenson’s hugs and possibly even return them. 

“How was your little trip up north?” he asked, sinking down in John’s chair, looking up at them expectantly. 

“Necessary,” John said calmly and Sherlock’s eyes wandered from Jenson to him, as if he wasn’t quite sure what John meant. “My shoulder is much better, I got some fresh air, and Sherlock and I almost died in a frozen lake.”

“Shock therapy, then?” Jenson grinned. 

“We were at no point in any danger of dying,” Sherlock clarified. “It was also not frozen, but possibly even a little above 10°C.”

“Oh, was it _that_ warm?” John mocked and Sherlock chuckled fondly. 

“Alright, alright, it might have been a bit on the cold side. But I didn’t force you to go in and neither of us drowned.”

“He saved me quite heroically,” John sounded much more serious than he had wanted to sound and for a moment there was a tangible connection between him and Sherlock. A mutual understanding of what he really meant with it. He felt his heart beat heavily in his chest when he continued. “It was quite lovely.”

“Lovely?” Jenson mocked him. “You never say lovely except for when you are being sarcastic. You’ve changed, mate.” 

“If I have it’s his fault,” John pointed at Sherlock who immediately drew up his shoulders as if to defend himself. 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Jenson said instead of berating Sherlock, which he had undoubtedly expected. “Thanks for taking care of Johnny.”

John flipped him off at the nickname, but Jenson just grinned. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Sherlock immediately went into details about the expected track temperature and the possibility of rain. As he had never driven on the Hockenheimring, he wanted to know exactly what kinds of tyres reacted in which way under which condition on the track and soon he and Jenson had created a rather complex table with reactions and cross reactions, each marked with specific driving styles. 

“If you push coming out of turn nine, you can easily overheat them if it’s a hot day. You have to be careful not to lose them. You’re right in wanting slicks, probably, but if it rains, you’re fucked.”

“As are you if you choose slicks,” Sherlock remarked and Jenson laughed and nodded. “It’d be ideal if it cooled down a bit, but rain could muck things up properly. None of us are truly good in rain, Felipe is decent. Schumacher was the only one who excelled at it. Well, and Senna.” 

“What if it rains during the start and we go on hard tyres?”

“Better hope the track dries quickly. Otherwise, intermediates, just to make sure.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“You’ll get a feel for it as soon as you’re on the track. It’s lovely, but very tricky. It’s much harder to overtake anyone.”

Jenson’s phone rang and he started when he saw the time. “Shit, Anderson expected me in the garage fifteen minutes ago. I’ve got to go, sorry. Lunch later?”

“Sure,” Sherlock and John had spoken simultaneously and Jenson could not keep back a telling grin. 

Just before he was out of the door, John poked Sherlock in the side. 

“Umm, Jenson.” Sherlock started and Jenson turned around in the door.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for your help,” Sherlock said quietly and Jenson nodded. 

“Anytime, mate.”


	65. Chapter Sixty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisses and cookies to all of you who commented on this!

After Sherlock had typed the table into his computer while John watched him and envied his typing speed, they went downstairs to have a look at the car. John knew from the reports that she had run smoothly and that nothing major had come up. Josh had, however, complained that the motor was too strong for the rest of the car and would probably fall to pieces after the race – if not before that.

John knew that Josh was not wrong about that. His gear box was laid out to push the car forward as quickly as possible – the few changes he had made would ensure that. She would not be the fastest car on straights, but corners shouldn't be a problem. Considering the heat which the next weekend might bring, he knew that chances of overheating were high. And yet, if Sherlock knew what was at stake, he would know how to handle the issue and drive accordingly. But John would not tell him about it before he had seen him drive the car. 

The delight on Sherlock’s face when he saw the car sitting in the garage was momentarily distracting John from his thoughts. He watched him walk around her slowly, drawing the tips of his fingers along her wings and flank, stopping at her nose to bend down and prod the tyres. John wondered if there had always been something sexual in the way Sherlock moved with and around the car, or whether it had come with the new experience. Or maybe he had never really paid attention. Either way, the way Sherlock touched the car made John hold his breath. 

“Can we take her out?”

“I hope so,” John nodded and called Josh. In the few minutes of waiting time, John checked on the brakes. Apart from the tyres and the gear box, the brakes were the most important parts to think about. He knew that if the weather remained as it was in Germany, around 35°C, Molly would suffer from the heat on the track, which could easily reach 100°C and more and while it would be great weather for slicks, it would also mean that Sherlock would need to brake gently while it would make close fights like the one with Massa during Silverstone extremely dangerous. 

If it rained Sherlock would have to be more careful while steering but could speed up and brake to his heart’s content. John wasn’t sure which option he preferred, but he knew that Sherlock would make the right decisions either way. There was also the small hope that it might cool down a bit and not rain. He placed the warmers on the tyres and switched them on while he tried to push away any imagined scenario in which something happened to the car and consequently to Sherlock. 

“You’re worried,” Sherlock noted and John looked up at him, rubbing his forehead with the knuckle of his index finger. 

“Of course I am.”

“Why? You were not worried last time.”

“I did not care that much last time, not as much as I do now.”

“But you did care a great deal,” Sherlock seemed a little confused by John’s explanation, but before John could explain, Josh came in, a notebook in his hand. 

“Gentlemen,” he greeted them with a grin. “How are you this fine Monday?”

“He is worried,” Sherlock pointed at John, who frowned at him in return. “I’m not.”

“Good,” Josh nodded. “Yes, good.”

John shook his head. “What is good?”

“That you’re worried and he’s not. Great combination for that car.”

“I want him to drive her.” John said and Josh opened his notebook. 

“If you open the air canal up another two millimetres you might gain a few laps.”

“You think she’ll go up in flames?”

“Well,” he shrugged. “It’s a matter of circumstance, I reckon. She drove beautifully over here, but Germany is tricky and while we all saw what you,” he turned to Sherlock, “can do, I’m not sure you can continue that way in Hockenheim. You have the hill and the hairpin and at least three teams that have done incredibly well this season under exactly those kinds of circumstances.”

“I know. I’ve seen the numbers.”

“Find a way to cool her down,” he said, ignoring Sherlock’s remark, “and if you do, you can use the gearbox anywhere, even in Bahrain. The motor is a thing of beauty but the rest of the car needs to be as good to keep up with it.” 

“And why is it good that Sherlock is not worried?” John asked while Josh handed him another sheet with text results which specifically outlined the heating issue.

“Because he will see what’s possible without feeling inhibited.”

Sherlock’s expression gave nothing away, but John knew that he was internally checking off a list of things that challenged his driving. He might have been carefree now, but it didn’t mean that he would not drive carefully. 

Josh helped John to get the car outside and to start it while Sherlock changed into his suit. Sherlock climbed in and put on his helmet, breathing out carefully before slowly driving Molly towards the racetrack, while John jogged along next to him. To keep contact, Sherlock used his ear piece and John a walkie talkie. He knew that he could check the progress from the control board, but he wanted to have more direct visibility of the test track. Meanwhile, Josh set up the computer to record the technical progress of the car on the track and finally told John and Sherlock over the radio that he was ready. 

Sherlock entered the test track and slowly took the first few corners, warming up the tyres. Then he slowly sped up and after he had finished the first lap he took the track much faster, getting used to the small changes John had implemented. 

“Things are looking good,” Josh confirmed from the garage. “How are you feeling, Holmes?”

Sherlock did not bother to answer that question and simply sped up further. John chuckled. 

Another few laps seemed sufficient for Sherlock to get entirely used to the car again and then he started really testing her. Even though he was careful not to overdo it, he sped up quickly and then almost stopped again, causing the car to lose traction and skid across the track. John knew that it was partly because the track was dirty, and partly because of the slicks Sherlock was using. 

He took the turns too hard, came out too late and barely managed to keep the car on track. At one point he lost control and the car spun around, but he immediately turned her again and took another lap without any glitches. 

“Incoming!” Jenson’s voice broke the radio silence and John turned around just when Jenson started the car. A few minutes later he passed him and entered the track. Sherlock had not said a single word since he had properly started, but John could feel his worry dissipate when he heard a low chuckle. 

Sherlock took the next lap very slowly, meeting Jenson at the start. He let him go through his warm up lap, following closely behind, shadowing his turns and movements on the track. Then he slowed down, giving Jenson some space at the start and finish line before he told him to go. Jenson remained at the line, however, waiting until Sherlock stood next to him. “You have a nerve,” he commented over the radio, making John laugh. 

“Should I count you down?” 

“Please,” Sherlock said drily and Jenson snorted. 

“Right, ready, set, go.”

The two cars jumped forward, but even before the first corner, Sherlock was two car lengths ahead of Jenson, who cursed quietly. 

“Radio’s still on,” John reminded him and Jenson cleared his throat. “He was meant to hear that.”

“Heard you loud and clear,” Sherlock answered and pushed ahead further, widening the distance between the cars. 

“Jesus, how do you do that?” Jenson pushed harder, took the corners closer, and risked getting more dirt than necessary on his tyres to get closer to Sherlock again. And Sherlock did not wait. He did not slow down to allow Jenson to get closer again. Instead, he tested different approaches to the corners, taking more risks and braking sharply before pushing down the throttle as he came out of the corners in second gear, making the car howl before allowing it to calm down in a higher gear. 

John called in at the garage, worrying about the car now. Sherlock was taking the testing very seriously and he feared that by the end of the day, he’d have to rebuild entirely. “Josh? How’s the car doing?”

“Not burning, yet,” was the short answer. 

“But?”

“You could definitely light a cigarette with the brake plates right now or grill some bacon. The tyres are blistering pretty badly. He should come in after the next couple of laps.”

“You hear that, Sherlock?”

“Copy.”

“How is Jenson doing?” John asked, wanting to know whether his motor was working for him.

“Decent. The track’s too dirty for proper tyre work, but the numbers are looking good and he’s using less fuel than Holmes.” 

“Hahaa,” Jenson piped up and John had to laugh out loud. 

“Sherlock, do come in, please?”

Sherlock did another lap and then sped up when he left the track, letting Molly break out right in front of John, drawing a perfect half circle on the track with his already blistered tyres. John shook his head, remembering his first impression of Sherlock vividly. When Sherlock peeled himself out of the car and took off his HANS and then his helmet, John felt his love for him like a punch to his stomach. For a moment, he was breathless, unused to any kind of extreme emotion that he was feeling at the moment except for pain and fear. 

Sherlock’s eyes met his and John stopped functioning for a moment. He simply stood and looked at Sherlock who slowly put his gear down and walked towards him. John knew that there was no way he could explain to Sherlock what he was feeling and he was in no position to show him, so he simply waited to see what would happen if he came any closer, hoping not to make a fool of himself. 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and then turned around himself once, as if to make sure that they weren’t watched. They were close enough to the main building to be seen from there, but at least nobody would hear them. 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, reaching out to touch John’s hand, gently at first, but when John did not react, he wrapped his hand around his wrist and held him tightly, his thumb stroking the back of his hand. 

John knew that he was not only comforting him, but that he was also taking his pulse, checking whether he was close to a panic attack and it made everything so much worse, or better, John couldn’t quite decide. 

“Not here, not now,” he managed and Sherlock pulled his hand back. He still stood too close, watching him intently, his hair slick with sweat and his eyes crystal clear. 

John inhaled deeply and then straightened his shoulder. “Right. How did she feel?”

Sherlock looked momentarily confused before he visibly pulled himself together. “Good. Very good. The best part is that even if I lose her she comes back. I’ve never driven a car that allowed me to do that.”

“So we need to cool her down.”

“Or hope for rain.”

“You won’t leave this to chance.”

“Neither will you.”

John grinned and Sherlock smiled back. It was Jenson’s voice over the radio that finally broke the moment. “Are you just going to leave me out here until I run out of fuel?” 

“That was the plan,” John immediately countered. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing alright. I am also going to have you two over for dinner tonight.”

“A conspiracy meeting?”

“No, a get pissed and relax meeting.”

John laughed. “I though it was going to be after work drinks?"

"Changed my mind. The occasion calls for a proper dinner."

Alright.”

“Alright?” Sherlock asked and John took a deep breath. 

“Yes,” John nodded. “Also, we’ll get to drink all of Jenson’s mini bar inventory.”

“I heard that,” Jenson complained and then parked his own car next to Sherlock’s. Fumbling around a bit with his equipment, he finally got out of the car and joined them. “You seriously need to have some alone time,” he said, shaking his head. “But not tonight.”

Neither John nor Sherlock knew how to react to that comment, but Sherlock turned away from John a little.

“Anyway, my mini bar is still full, Jess is still in town, and I would very much like to have you over for dinner.”

“We already accepted.”

“Felt more personal, in person,” Jenson grinned. “Now. What did you do with this car? No matter what I do, he’s at least two seconds faster than I am.” He bumped into Sherlock on purpose and Sherlock gave him such a judgemental look that Jenson moved to stand behind John and out of Sherlock's direct eye line, much to John’s amusement.

“Well, the gear box,” John started, but they were interrupted by Anderson who came jogging towards them. He stopped a few feet away to catch his breath. “Why did you not tell me that you were taking the car outside?” he complained and Sherlock took a step back. 

“I’ll take her back inside,” he murmured and then went to push Molly back towards the main building and the garage with Josh's help. 

Jenson shrugged. “I wanted to join the fun and she was ready to go.” 

“But you know what was at stake, driving with _him_.”

John felt his hands shake, but Jenson stepped between him and Anderson. “Yes, it made me realise that we have a lot of work to do to get a car as brilliant at Sherlock’s. And even if we do, I doubt I could make it her fly like he does. His driving is extraordinary.”

John had never been more grateful for Jenson’s support and he forced himself to breathe evenly. “I’ll be inside,” he said and walked away briskly. He found Sherlock in the garage, sitting on one of the overused tyres, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes.

“What are you doing?” John asked, not necessarily wanting to take the cigarette pack away, but hoping that he would not feel the need to smoke now. He had not used any nicotine patches during the weekend, but then again he had not been particularly stressed. 

“Waiting for you,” Sherlock answered throwing the packet in the general direction of the bin. 

“Oy,” Josh complained and fished them out again. “You could have said you don’t smoke anymore.”

“I haven’t stopped,” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s just been tedious to acquire any while I had better things to do. It’s impossible to sustain a smoking habit in a place like this these days. ”

“Can we just please remove the cigarettes from the garage?” John asked, slightly annoyed and yet strangely endeared that Josh had at least attempted to bond with Sherlock. 

Josh rose to his feet and picked up the packet, pocketing it, and pointed at the screen which showed the test results. “Obviously none of us tested the car the way Holmes just did,” he explained, “but in general your car is beyond anything we’ve built in the last two seasons and Holmes knows what he’s doing.”

“Thank you,” John said, hoping that Josh knew what he was really thanking him for without spelling it out specifically. “So how do we make sure that she’s not going up in flames in Hockenheim?”

“More air, as he said,” Sherlock answered. “If the brakes are kept cool somehow it shouldn’t be a problem. I also think that we should start in intermediates and then use slicks for the last twenty laps or so.”

“What if it rains?”

“I’d still start on intermediates. If it doesn’t rain hard, the track will be dry after a few laps and Jenson said that he’s been doing better with intermediates than hard tyres in Germany.”

John smiled. “Alright. I’ll have a look at the design and see what I can do.”

The three of them took the casing off the car and John opened up the mechanics, carefully checking whether the essential parts had survived Sherlock’s test. Apart from a few wear parts, which he had expected to fall apart, most of the interior still looked intact and the computer had not registered any failures. 

“You’re a genius, you know that?” he said to Sherlock, who pressed his lips together in a half-embarrassed, half-thankful smile. “How do you do that?”

“Do what? A little more precision …”

“Ah, shut up,” John chuckled. “How do you drive so amazingly well and still keep the car from falling apart.”

“I asked Lestrade for titanium and you built a gear box that deserved it.”

“So you’re saying it’s not you who’s taking care of the car?”

“It’s a good car.”

John watched Sherlock calmly for a long moment, ignoring Josh who had stopped pretending to be busy with the tools and blatantly listened to their exchange. 

“Thank you,” John finally said and Sherlock looked at him sharply, as if to see what exactly John was thanking him for. 

“Pleasure,” he murmured. “She just needs to make it through Germany.”

John remembered that Josh had said that if he managed to cool the box, that he would be able to use the car even in the desert race. He wondered whether he knew anything about Lestrade’s plan to let Sherlock stay, because he would most definitely not use the same car for Kevin or Stoffel as their driving styles were entirely different from Sherlock’s. 

“I’m sure she will.” John smiled at Sherlock, not caring what Josh might read into it. “I’ll have a look at the motor later, but I think we deserve some lunch now."


	66. Chapter Sixty-Six

Josh signed them out and called the team in to take the car apart while John and Sherlock slowly made their way towards the cafeteria, neither of them really wanting to be among other people. John had texted Mike, asking to postpone the meeting if possible. Mike had answered that after Josh's report, half of what he had wanted to warn John about was negligible.

“What happened out there?” Sherlock finally asked when they were alone in a hallway. 

John shrugged and stopped in his tracks, his lips involuntarily quirking to form a smitten smile. “I was just very happy to see you.”

Sherlock watched him closely. “When you said that you didn’t care during Silverstone, what did you mean?”

“Oh,” John realised that Sherlock was full of questions while he simply tried to readjust to the changed circumstances. “Well, initially I was concerned with my own previous failures. And then I was very focused on you. What you’d think of me. How I could work with you without making things awkward. How gorgeous you looked when you were concentrating,” he lowered his voice. “I wanted the car to do well and I wanted you to win. But I didn’t really care, not in comparison to what I was really concerned with. And now that we’re … you know … together, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. I mean, I’m still distracted by you, but in a different way. And since I always need something to worry about, it’s the car’s turn again.”

Sherlock smiled at him and John found it very hard not to close the distance between them and pull him in for a kiss. Instead, he turned and walked ahead, hoping that the butterflies in his stomach would eventually decide to calm down before he lost his appetite. 

He texted Jenson their whereabouts and made Sherlock sit down in a calm area of the cafeteria, knowing that he would need time to get used to the lunch time crowd. He had just filled two plates with risotto when he spotted Sally a few tables away, sitting with Anderson, her face unreadable. 

Knowing that Sherlock would not appreciate any more of his meddling, he returned to their table and simply told Sherlock that he had seen her on the other side of the room. Sherlock inhaled deeply, but did not respond. 

“You don’t have to talk to her,” John tried as he put a plate in front of Sherlock. “I could just ask her.”

“No. I’ll go after lunch,” Sherlock said at length and John could read in his face how much he dreaded the encounter. 

“If you want me there with you, just let me know, yeah?” John started to eat, wondering whether Sherlock would still feel like socialising after getting rid of the box. 

Sherlock ate mechanically, chewing monotonously, as if he did not even register the taste, but was simply concerned with getting the food inside of him. John’s phone vibrated with Jenson’s text that he’d be late and probably miss them at lunch, but that he had told Jess that they’d come around and expected them at the hotel at 8 pm sharp. 

Eventually, Sherlock finished his plate and pushed it away. “I’ll get the box,” he said, seemingly calm and collected, but when he walked away John remembered that he still had the car keys in his pocket, and he knew that Sherlock was trying his hardest to not let his true feelings show. 

He quickly put the plates away and then made his way out into the parking lot. Sherlock sat on the ground, his back leaning against the car, arms wrapped around his legs, his face hidden between his knees. John felt his heart break. He had sat like this after his nightmare induced panic attack, blocking the world out and shutting down his thoughts, too. 

“Sherlock. I’m going with you,” he decided and sat down next to him. It wasn’t like last night, when Sherlock had been deeply in thought and definitely upset. He had been full of emotion then, almost shaking with them – now he seemed entirely still.

“We do this together. And I’m not saying that because I think you’re not strong enough or that you might turn away from it all if it gets too much. I just want to be there for you, with you, know you? All the way.”

Sherlock leaned to the left, just lightly, but enough so he could move his head from between his own knees to come to rest on John’s right knee. John smiled despite it all. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked quietly, and Sherlock closed the few inches of distance between their bodies. John’s hand came to rest on his shoulder and he carefully stroked the exposed skin between his hair and his fireproofs. Then he leaned down and kissed the back of his head, nuzzling the curls. “Come on, let’s get this over with. No matter what happens, it won’t be like this anymore. You’ll have clarity, and I know that this is what you want. You want to know. You don’t want to guess and be unsure about this. It’s been like that for much too long.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and transferred his head from John’s knee to his chest. John hugged him close. 

For another handful of minutes they remained like this, almost motionless, hidden from the world in the parking lot. “Alright,” Sherlock finally said. “I’m ready.”

John kissed his hair again before they scrambled to their feet and John unlocked the trunk and got the box out. He watched Sherlock carefully as they walked back inside and he could feel dread weighing him down when his steps slowed as they came closer to Sally’s office. 

“Let me talk to her first?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. Then he shook his head. “No.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock answered and knocked.

Sally’s voice bade them come in, but her face spelled out the opposite of welcome when they entered. 

“Oh, it’s you.”

John looked at her, and then at Sherlock, and then back to her. No one spoke for a long moment until Sherlock cleared his throat and took another step forward. “Sally,” he started and then walked all the way to her desk. She moved back in her chair as far as she could without pushing it back and remained in that position even after Sherlock had placed the box on her desk. “These are Victor’s belongings which he left at my parents’ estate. They never offered to have them sent over and since I was just there, I thought that he might want to have them. So I brought them. Here.” His fingers twitched nervously, but he was doing much better than John had initially feared.

“And what makes you think that he’d want this back?” Sally asked, bile in her voice, but more out of routine than actual anger. “There might be a reason why he never came to pick it up?”

A shadow crossed Sherlock’s face and John could see the muscles in his back tighten in the attempt to hold it together. “If you have a look inside, you might understand that some of these memories might be important to him.”

“You went through his things?” She asked, her voice definitely more earnestly angry now.

“There was no name or anything on the box,” John piped up and Sherlock visibly bit back his reply. “We just came across it by chance and rather than throwing it out, we thought we'd leave that choice to him.”

“You, as in, you two?” Sally’s eyes bore into them. “You’re moving in together now, or what?”

Sherlock’s panicked stare told her everything she needed to know. But before she could start mocking them, John shook his head. “It’s got nothing to do with us. It’s from Scotland, where Victor spent the summers.”

“And what do you know about my brother?” she asked, her brain visibly connecting the dots of John’s and Sherlock’s relationship. 

“Enough to think that he might appreciate this,” he pointed at the box and after endless seconds, Sally nodded.

“I would like to apologise,” Sherlock broke the following silence. He was ashen and John could not help but step closer, just in case. “For not being honest with you,” he continued, his shoulders rising with every breath that seemed to cause him endless pain to draw. “I know what you think of me, and you’re not wrong. I did hurt Victor, and I cannot undo it. But if you could just, please, return his things and tell him that I am sorry …,” he stopped, dropping his gaze to the floor, barely holding himself together. 

Sally’s eyes hardened even further. 

“Is there any way that Sherlock could talk to him?” John asked, knowing that if he didn’t ask now, he would risk losing his temper and possibly his job. 

Sally stood up and walked around her desk, leaning against it and thereby putting herself between Sherlock and the box, and pulled out her phone. She dialled a number and then waited, still staring Sherlock down. 

“Victor. It’s me. … The freak wants to talk to you.”

John was impressed that Sherlock managed to stay calm and he felt a tiny spark of satisfaction when her expression wavered. “Sherlock. Sherlock wants to talk to you.”

“Not now,” John said and looked at Sherlock to confirm his feeling. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, his eyes still on the floor. 

“Oh, hold on, he just changed his mind.” 

John felt the edge of his vision go white, he was so angry. Stepping forward, he held out his hand and Sally, slightly alarmed by John’s stare, handed him her phone. John inhaled deeply. “Victor Trevor? Hello, my name is John Watson.”

Victor’s voice was strained, and yet strangely soft. “Oh, John Watson. _The_ John Watson?”

“Umm,” John frowned. “Not sure what you mean by _the_ John Watson.”

“The one who works with Sherlock?”

John felt strangely relieved to hear Sherlock’s name spoken without any hint of anger or hatred. 

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m sorry about Sally. She sometimes gets a little overprotective of me.”

John realised that his accent was decidedly different from Sally’s. “Well, that would be an understatement,” John tried his hardest to sound light hearted. “Listen, Victor … if that’s alright with you. I was wondering if you would possibly agree to talk to him, in private, of course. Or meet him, maybe? I think there are a lot of things that need clarification. A lot has gone unspoken that you two should sort out.”

“Are you his agent, too? Or his therapist?” Something in Victor’s voice made John believe that he was not mocking him, but genuinely interested.

“No,” John turned around and looked at Sherlock, who looked both scared and somehow relieved. “No, I’m his partner.”

“Well, his mechanic, right?”

Australian, John realised. Victor spoke with an Australian accent.

“That, too,” John smiled at Sherlock before he grew serious again when Victor did not respond.

“Oh.” Victor was momentarily silent before he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, but nothing else.

“For what?” John asked, still looking at Sherlock.

“Oh … god, I’m so sorry.” 

“Listen, Victor,” John’s voice betrayed his irritation. “I’m not the one you need to apologise to. And I take it that that’s what you’re doing, apologising. Because if I’m misunderstanding this, then…”

“No, wait,” Victor interrupted him just as Sally stepped up and grabbed the phone from John. “Enough,” she said, “you have no right to threaten Victor.”

John lifted his hands and took a step away from her. “I apologise if I misspoke.”

Sally stared at him uncomprehending. 

“Coming, Sherlock?” he turned around and walked out of Sally’s office. Sherlock followed close behind.

“What did just happen?” Sherlock asked John, who angrily buried his hands in his pockets.

“He has no idea what he’s done to you,” John said once they were back in their office. “Or, well, I guess it’s dawning on him now.” He forced himself to calm down but found it difficult looking at Sherlock, who was still pale.

“But you didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t have to. I imagine Sally kept any conversations with him about you to a bare minimum. He didn’t know she meant you when she talked to him first and when I suggested that you two need to talk he thought I was your agent or your therapist. Both of these would make sense, from a very removed position. As your agent, I could ask you to reconnect to your driving past, shaking things up for the press after your successful race, of which he obviously knows. As your therapist, it would be a usual step to take you through your past and maybe connect some dots here and there and have you work through conflict. But when he understood that we are together, he just … he folded.”

“What do I do now?” 

John stepped closer and put his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “He’ll call you. I’m almost certain that he will.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows that something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what.”

“Do you think he cares?” Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes and John nodded. 

“I think he cares a great deal.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. “What did he sound like?”

“Normal. Nice, I think. Not angry about Sally’s call, either. I don’t know what I expected, but he sounded reasonable and … I don’t know. Just normal.”

“Thank you for talking to him. I don’t think I could have. Not with Sally in the room.”

“Not with me in the room, either.”

Sherlock pulled him close, allowing John’s hands to slip from his hips to his back. “I don’t know how I feel about Sally knowing about us,” John finally said, pulling away from the hug. “She doesn’t seem to have talked to anyone about it.”

“Well, Anderson probably knows. She tells him everything. And if Anderson does, he’ll wait for a good moment to share what he knows.”

“Do you think he’d say something to the press?”

“Accidentally, possibly. Or if he’s really well paid for it, though I doubt anyone would pay him for inside information. He’d lose his job.”

A knock interrupted their dark thoughts. John was half way at the door when it opened and Lestrade walked in. He looked tired, but otherwise as optimistic as always.

“How are we doing?” he asked, looking back and forth between the two. Then he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “What happened?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, but once more John realised that Lestrade knew Sherlock a great deal better than he usually let on.

John remained silent, not wanting to interfere further. He knew that Sherlock had been overwhelmed with what had happened in Sally’s office, but now that he had time to think about it all, he did not want to risk speaking for him. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, shrugging and turning away from Lestrade. 

“Just tell me that you can handle it and I’ll let it go.”

“Eventually, yes,” Sherlock nodded and began peeling off his fireproofs. 

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before he turned to John. ‘Okay?’ he mouthed at John silently and John half nodded half shrugged. 

Then his boss pointed back and forth between John and Sherlock, his expression adding the question mark. 

John smiled and nodded. 

“Good,” Lestrade said out loud and Sherlock turned around, buttoning his shirt, while his overall was still hanging loosely from his hips. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Lestrade countered and John had to chuckle. 

“Oh, very funny,” Sherlock said and dropped his overall to his feet. 

John laughed out loud, but mostly at Lestrade’s slightly annoyed expression. “Not a good time, I see. Come upstairs for a briefing in twenty, yeah? Don’t get distracted,” he squarely pointed at John and then left the room again without any further comment. 

John sat down on his couch and rubbed his face. “Are you okay?” he finally looked up and found that Sherlock was completely dressed again. He also looked much better than he had for the past hour. 

Sherlock did not answer. 

“It was the right decision to go to Sally,” John said, hoping that Sherlock agreed with him, but not daring to make it a question.

“She’s got the box.”

“I didn’t tell Victor anything about the box.”

“What if Sally doesn’t tell him?”

“She knows that you two will talk. She couldn’t keep it a secret. And it’s also Sally. She’s upset with you for all kinds of reasons, but she loves him. That’s probably why she is still so angry after all these years.”

“Did he really sound okay?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “He sounded normal, and I don’t doubt he would have talked to you had it been you and not me on the other end. I think he really had no idea what happened to you after. As if he just moved on and left it all behind. Literally, too. Or has he always sounded Australian.”

Sherlock frowned. “Australian? No. He had a bit of his father’s northern accent and a bit of Cockney.”

“Hmm, maybe he moved there?”

“Mycroft would know,” Sherlock already had his phone in hand, but John stopped him. 

“Don’t ask him. Ask Victor.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Right,” he put his phone away and straightened his shirt.

“Why did you get dressed?”

“I needed something to do.”

“Shame, really.”

Sherlock gave him a judgemental look. “You were not paying attention to my clothes.”

“No, rather to the body underneath those clothes.”

“You, John Watson, are lying.”

John smiled at the returned playfulness. It gave him hope. “One day I will make love to you in your race gear. But,” he smirked, “only after a win.” He stood up as if to add authority to his statement. 

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and looked at him with interest. “Is that the only requirement? That I win a race? Because if it is, I better propose my … idea … to Lestrade to ensure that we both stay in the same hotel room this weekend.”

“Oh, you’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Well, a little motivation can go a long way.”

“What if you don’t make it.”

“Then you don’t get to make love to me in my racing gear. So the car better perform.”

John laughed and almost stepped forward to kiss him, but then he decided to not give in to the temptation and instead made for the door. Only when they both entered the briefing room did John realise that Sally would naturally also be there. He gave Sherlock’s wrist a reassuring squeeze before he sat down with the mechanics while Sherlock walked on further to sit next to Jenson, who immediately noticed that something was different than before. He searched for John’s face in the room, but John minutely shook his head when he gave him an inquisitive look. 

Jenson leaned in closer to Sherlock and said something under his breath, causing Sherlock to at least crack a smile. John had rarely been more thankful for his friend and team-mate. 

Lestrade came in last and immediately began speaking. Once more, Sherlock was introduced as the replacement driver for the weekend and this time, fewer quietly uttered remarks disrupted the silence. John could see Sally looking blankly ahead, ignoring Sherlock completely. Anderson sneered, but did not seem any more annoyed with Sherlock than at any other given point during the last few weeks. 

A few important changes in sponsorship were announced, yet none of them were short term changes that affected either Sherlock or John. As a second point, Lestrade stressed that they had been doing very well despite the sudden changes and that he hoped to keep things up for the rest of the season. A few press dates were announced and the general plan of the week was introduced and plane tickets handed out. 

John was sure that the hotel situation had already been decided on and cleared, but he wondered whether Sherlock would actually manage to get Lestrade to change his mind.

When the briefing was declared over, Sherlock immediately stood up and spoke to Lestrade. A frown and a few words later Lestrade walked out of a door on the far side of the room with Sherlock following him close by. 

While John waited for Sherlock to come back, Jenson came to sit down next to him. 

“We’re fine,” John said when Jenson opened his mouth to speak.


	67. Chapter Sixty-Seven

“Sherlock didn’t seem fine,” Jenson commented, looking truly worried, but John couldn’t possibly tell him about Sally and Victor now. Yet he loved Jenson for being so concerned about Sherlock.

“What if the cars overheat?” John asked Jenson before he could ask further about the tension in the air. 

Jenson gave John a look that made it clear that this conversation was not over, but simply postponed. “Then they overheat. Your motor is incredible, but we’ll just have to see how far it carries us. We’re in the middle of the season, John. We won’t be able to change anything in terms of the championship. But you’ve shown what is possible and I don’t think anyone is expecting anything else from you than to keep at it now. To not go back to supervising, but to stay in the garage and come up with designs that will change the game.”

“No pressure then,” John chuckled. “How is Anderson doing?”

“He loves your motor. Would never admit it, but he’s a fan.”

John sighed. “Thank you, Jenson.”

Jenson shrugged, obviously not seeing why John would earnestly thank him for saying that. 

“No, I mean, for everything. You’ve really helped me. You always have. I never … I don’t think I ever said thank you properly.”

“Aww, John.” Jenson ruffled his hair with a grin. “Just looking out for my brother,” he smiled his usual boyish, happy smile and John, overcome with gratefulness, pulled him into a fierce hug. He only let go when the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat in disapproval reached his ears. 

Sherlock positively towered over them, his eyes burning and John was quite turned on all of the sudden. 

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked, his voice icy, and John and Jenson stared at him, slowly moving away from each other. A few seconds passed in which neither of them spoke until Sherlock cracked first. His lips twitched and John immediately lost it, bursting out laughing, infecting both Jenson and Sherlock, who had to sit down as not to just crumble to the floor. 

Of course their loud laughter attracted attention, but neither of them was willing or able to explain why they were laughing. It took Lestrade’s mildly annoyed but mostly amused ‘what in the world is going on here?’ stare to calm them down slightly. 

“Off to work, Jenson. I have a few things to settle with these two.” He pointed at John and Sherlock as if they were children about to be chided. Jenson was up and gone in a second, his laughter still ringing from the hallway for a moment.

They followed Lestrade to his office. Not a word was exchanged, but Sherlock fell back for a moment and took John’s hand, squeezing gently before letting him go again. Inside and with the door closed, Lestrade gave a heavy sigh and fell back into his chair. 

“First of all, your brother’s suggestion lends itself to the issue of our team’s contracts. However, it will be a mere suggestion, and if Stoffel refuses, he will stay on for the season. Kevin has been doing better and Aki has reported that he’s healing quickly, so at the moment we’re looking only at Germany and a car that might possibly go up in flames because the motor and the box are too powerful.” He looked squarely at John who held his gaze, wondering where his boss was taking this. 

“I also have a mechanic and a driver who apparently need to resort to emotional blackmail instead of simply asking nicely if they can share a hotel room in Hockenheim.”

John slowly turned towards Sherlock, who did not look like he had done anything wrong. “He only told me he had a plan,” John tried to justify. “He never said what that plan was.”

“Have you heard of Chinese water torture?” Lestrade’s expression was grave. 

“What did you do?” he asked Sherlock, understanding that Lestrade had the upper hand in this no matter what Sherlock had tried. His approval or disapproval was solely dependent on whether their boss wanted to be nice to them or not and currently it looked like he would enjoy nothing more than to make them suffer by keeping them apart. 

“Oh, it wasn’t all his fault,” Lestrade smirked. 

“I don’t follow.”

“Really, John? A photo every few hours and you think I don’t know how disgustingly smitten you two are with each other?” The tone of Lestrade's voice gave away how pleased he was, but John felt his face burn. “I thought those were for Mycroft,” he looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. 

“Well,” Sherlock shrugged, entirely unfazed by the conversation. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“What worked?”

Sherlock grinned and Lestrade looked like he was about to laugh but couldn’t possibly allow himself to do that without losing his superior stance in the situation.

“I thought you were going to explain to him that … well,” John blushed even more deeply, “that it would be safer for both of us because of the panic attacks.”

Lestrade drew himself up to his full height. “Now, Sherlock. That is an argument that I am willing to accept as reasonable. You may thank John for being the reasonable one. We will book you two rooms, and I expect you to spend at least so much alone-time in your respective rooms that nobody can claim that one went unused.”

John nodded, surprised that Lestrade was giving in so easily. 

“And stop sending over photos. If your brother doesn’t believe you by now, nothing will make him see the light.”

“I’m sorry,” John tried to keep from grinning, though he found it almost impossible. “I really had no idea he was sending them to you.”

“Oh, I believe you, and while I can’t say that I am not pleased, I do recommend that you keep this among you and yours. The world out there might not really care, but there will always be a few loud voices who try to ruin the fun for everyone, so I suggest that you stop sending anyone photos of the kind you sent me and Mycroft. Now, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I have a few calls to make and a hotel reservation to confirm.”

“Thanks, Greg,” John hoped he sounded as earnest as his thanks were meant. “I really appreciate that.”

“Show me results and you two can do whatever you please – well, behind closed doors, of course. No, locked doors, rather.”

“Your professionalism is staggering,” Sherlock commented drily. 

“Says the hormone ridden man who sends me pictures of himself and his boyfriend snogging on a daily basis in an incredibly mature attempt to prove that he’s managed to get some.”

“Sent. Past. As you just specified.”

John simply stared at Sherlock and Lestrade in turns. He had always been on good terms with his boss, but this conversation was breaking any last bit of professional distance they had kept. 

“Good bye, Sherlock. Please close the door on your way out.”

Sherlock made a face and turned around without another word, stalking towards the door like a man who was desperately holding on to his pride. 

“John?” Lestrade called him back when he followed Sherlock. For two seconds Sherlock held the door open before he inhaled deeply and closed it from outside. 

“What did just happen?” John asked, shaking his head with disbelief.

“I just want you to know that it’s very unlikely that Sherlock’s case will be reopened. I gave Sherlock Trevor’s number, but I doubt that being in direct contact would help the legal case, if it ever became one.”

“Was that what you were talking about? I thought he was going to ask about the hotel.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to put you two into the same room?”

John nodded. “I can’t imagine not talking things through with him the night before the race. I think it helps him to focus to talk about it, and he doesn’t really talk to anyone. Ever. Except fo you.”

“He told me you talked to Trevor earlier?”

“Sherlock found a box with Victor’s things in his family’s house and I knew he couldn’t keep it there; not without Sherlock dreading its mere existence and the memories in that house are bad enough already. So I suggested we give it to Sally and for her to send it to Victor. Sally overreacted and called him, but Sherlock was barely okay with confronting her, and he was in no state to talk to him without any preparation. So I did. And he did not sound overly angry with Sherlock.”

“Sherlock has a few things in life that he really digs his teeth into, and usually he doesn’t let go of them, even – no, especially when other people tell him to. He always tried to find a rational explanation for everything. But he doesn’t share what he finds if he’s not forced to. He just wants to learn – not to make a living, not to change the world or the sport. He just does it so he knows, and then he moves on. Victor Trevor was one of those problems he could not solve. None of us ever really knew what happened on the day. Sally mentioned earlier that Sherlock had shocked her with an apology, but she did not specify for what. She gave me his number to give to Sherlock.”

John pursed his lips and blew out the breath he had been holding. He knew already what Lestrade had just said, but it was good to know that he wasn’t alone in that knowledge and that someone else understood Sherlock.

“Do the photos really bother you?” John asked, wondering why he felt that knowing that Lestrade had received more pictures than were meant for him did not strike him as much of a line overstepped as the conversation between him and Sherlock just a moment ago did. 

“They are the most life-affirming things I have seen in years,” Lestrade smiled. “Inappropriate, yes, but by god I am happy for you and him. Though, don’t tell him that.”

John chuckled. “Thanks for giving us the weekend off. I really needed some quiet time after this and I think it was good for him, too.”

“Good, now go back and figure out how you’re going to win that race on Sunday.”

“I’ll put out an overnight order of new wings and wider air canals on the chassis. Tomorrow I’ll tone down the gear box. I know Sherlock can work with something less elaborate … and I don’t want to risk him getting hurt.”

“You keep that design, though. The car Sherlock drove in Silverstone was golden. We’ll work on it over the winter and make sure that we have a strong car next season.”

“But it’s Sherlock’s car. I don’t think any other driver would feel comfortable …”

“As I said, next season.”

John bit his lip, dreading to ask for clarification, but knowing that he could not leave the room without knowing. 

“Jenson stays?”

“If he signs the contract.”

“What about Kevin?”

“If Sherlock wants to stay on we are considering offering him Kevin’s seat.”

John nodded. “I know it’s not my place, but I can only tell you what he said to me. He would not feel comfortable being in the centre of attention every race weekend. I know I would love to see him in the spotlight, doing what he does best, but I don’t think it would work out in the long run. He wants to drive and he wants to drive fast, but it doesn’t matter whether it’s just to test out cars or to do it in a proper competition. He’s not in it for the other drivers, but for the car.”

“So you think he wants to continue as a test driver.”

John nodded. “An official one, yes. He’d be much more comfortable. At least that's what he said. I don't know ... I don't know if he meant it, though. I couldn't say.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and studied John long and hard. “What about you, then?”

“I stay if he stays.”

“But you’ll continue manual work on top of design?”

John inhaled sharply. He knew what Lestrade was asking, but he wasn’t sure whether he could give him the answer he wanted to hear. 

“I’ll build cars, yes. But I need him there with me.”

Lestrade nodded. “I see.”

“I’m getting better, but I’m miles away from being able to promise anything. The request for a joint hotel room is entirely serious. We’ve both gotten better, but I can’t do it without him.”

“Who would have thought that it would take the strangest man I know to help you get better.”

John smiled. “And you can’t even claim responsibility. It was Mike who brought me to Silverstone.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Right, but I offered him a job.”

“He only took it because of me,” John countered. For a moment he was stunned, because until this moment he had never truly understood why Sherlock had taken the job in the first place. He had never considered for one minute that Sherlock might have been just as scared as he was to make that decision and that his condition was in fact not something to get John to agree, but that he would have declined if John had said no or Lestrade had not allowed John to work with him. “Erm, sorry, I think I have to go.” 

Lestrade cocked his head to the left and studied him for a moment. “You okay?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “I just want to see if he’s alright. The thing with Victor really shook him.”

"Alright."

“Thank you so much.” John swallowed down any further sentimental words which threatened to spill out of him and straightened up. 

Lestrade nodded and then shooed him out of the room with a smile. “Get busy.”

John jogged back to his office, finding Sherlock watching a Hockenheim race from when the new track had just been opened in 2002. John wanted to talk to him, he wanted to kiss him and tell him how stupid he had been to be so self centred all the time, but Sherlock was entirely absorbed in the video. 

So instead of interrupting him, he came to stand next to him and watched the recording with him, paying attention to the ideal line and how the curbs affected the tyres. After a few minutes, Sherlock raised his right hand and, without looking away from the screen, and after a bit of pushing and pulling, sneaked his hand under John’s shirt and simply rested his hand on the small of John’s back, occasionally stroking his sensitive skin with his thumb. 

John held his breath for too long and when he exhaled, it sounded rather like a moan, which did not suffice to draw Sherlock’s attention away from the race, but at least he turned his head towards John, his eyes still on the screen, as if he expected more sounds like the previous one to follow. 

Instead of doing Sherlock that favour, he pushed his hand into the curls at the nape of his neck, rubbing and scratching gently. Two minutes of that and Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and pressing back lightly while his hand tightened against John’s skin. “Sorry,” he murmured before he looked at John, a frown immediately darkening his relaxed expression. 

“What happened?”

It was John’s turn to frown. “Nothing happened. What do you mean?”

Sherlock was up in a heartbeat, standing too close, looking too worried for John to catch his breath properly. Sherlock swiftly took his hand in his, two fingers pressing gently against his wrist. The act alone made John’s heart beat faster.

“Why did you agree to drive in Silverstone?” John asked, breathless with Sherlock’s proximity and his earlier realisation.

Sherlock seemed properly confused by the question. “Why are you asking?” He stepped back and John immediately felt wrong footed, so he followed Sherlock to stand even closer to him than before, making sure that he did not read rejection or mistrust between the lines. 

“Was it because of me? See, because I agreed to work on the car because of you, and I did not, for one moment, think of a reason why you agreed to do Lestrade the favour. Not until a few minutes ago.”

Sherlock looked taken aback before he visibly relaxed. “I think I might have, yes. I did not think it through, then, but I figured that if you agreed, chances would be that I wouldn’t be alone in this.”

“But was it because you liked me?” John held his gaze even though he felt a blush creep into his cheeks. 

Sherlock bit his lower lip and smiled, a combination that made him look boyish, adventurous and sexy. “I would be lying if I’d say that I did not also enjoy the prospect of being in your close proximity.”

“That no-kissing rule is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” John murmured and threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, kissing him hard and desperately. For a moment Sherlock seemed stunned, but then one hand found its way under John’s shirt again, and soon it were two hands, flattening against the skin of John’s back, pressing him against his body. 

John moaned against his lips when one of Sherlock’s hands moved down and slipped below his waistline, squeezing his arse with a satisfied sigh. 

“Oh god.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed and pulled again, causing John to throw his head back with an even louder moan, which Sherlock commented on with a chuckle before he kissed along John’s jaw and throat. A moment later he attached his lips to the half faded love bite on John’s neck and sucked again. 

John’s legs gave out and for a moment it was only Sherlock’s hand on his arse that kept him standing before John grabbed two hands full of hair and forcibly pushed him back. He knew it was too late and the mark was restored to its full blooming colour. Instead of chiding him, he attacked his mouth again, biting this time, enjoying the surprised noises Sherlock made. 

Then he dropped one hand between their bodies and squeezed Sherlock through his trousers. Suddenly Sherlock gasped, his fingers desperately digging into his hips while he pressed his face against John’s shoulder. It was too late when John let go of him, feeling him stiffen and then go slack in his arms. 

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sherlock laughed weakly and raised his arms to pull him into a proper hug once more. “That no-kissing rule did make sense while it lasted.”


	68. Chapter Sixty-Eight

John found it incredibly hard to let go of him, but he knew that if Sherlock did not want to walk around with a permanent stain on his expensive trousers, he needed to get cleaned up. Sherlock took his fireproofs and race suit to the bathroom with him and returned fully changed after ten minutes. 

“Sorry,” John tried again, still amazed how easy it was for him to make Sherlock come. 

Sherlock looked somewhat embarrassed, but then smirked and stepped right back into John’s personal space. “Apology accepted,” he murmured against his lips and John laughed, kissing him firmly. 

“Now, I better have a look at Molly’s new parts again before we rebuild her tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded, still standing almost pressed up against John. 

“Don’t tempt me or I will undress you again right here and do it properly this time,” John said quietly, trying to keep his voice even. 

“Is that a promise?” Sherlock smiled and cocked one eye brow.

“You’re impossible,” John chided him playfully before taking a step back. 

Sherlock let his eyes wander down from John’s face to his middle, where he stopped, staring at John’s tight jeans with something like scientific interest. 

John knew that anything he could say would make it worse somehow, so he turned around and pointedly stalked to his desk. Sherlock followed him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re everything,” he whispered before he returned to his own desk and restarted the video.

John was stunned by Sherlock’s words and it took him a long time until he could concentrate on what was right in front of him. 

But when he did, he found that the car would indeed be better for the changes he would make. He put out the order, confident for the first time that Sherlock would take the car through the race without any issues. More airflow would also mean a more stable car and there would be less strain on the tyres. He copied Sherlock and Lestrade into the email and sent it off to Mike. 

A few seconds later, Sherlock turned around in his chair. “Does that mean you have finished?”

John stretched and then turned around. “Jupp. Want to go home and get changed before we hit up Jenson?”

“It would seem rather silly to walk into a hotel like that,” Sherlock said drily and got up. For a moment John was tempted to repeat what they had done earlier, but he knew that it couldn’t become a regular feature of their work days. Lestrade might allow them to share a hotel room, but if they were caught making out in the office, or, even worse, with their hands down each other’s trousers, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment to put Sherlock into an office on the other side of the building. 

Once they were inside the car, John put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and only let go whenever he had to change the gear. Sherlock was silent throughout the ride and John did not want to interrupt him. He thought of Victor and wondered when Sherlock would call him, or whether he would call him at all. Somehow, he thought, it would be preferable if Victor called Sherlock.

It still seemed strange to him that he had sounded so upset on the phone when he realised what John was to Sherlock, but it would be up to Sherlock to find out why. In any case, they had gotten rid of the box and Victor was no longer a name that meant abstract pain to John, but a man with a voice and an obvious lack of knowledge of how much Sherlock had suffered because of him.

“John?” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by placing his hand on John’s. Only then John realised that he was squeezing a bit too had.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” He wanted to pull his hand back, but Sherlock prevented it. Instead, he slipped his own under John’s, palm upwards, and intertwined their fingers. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock said quietly and John looked at him, sensing that it wasn’t his hand that he referred to.

John let go of him once they entered the city centre and he had to navigate the car though rush hour traffic. It took them more time than John had hoped it would and they walked into the flat an hour before their date with Jenson.

Thankfully, the hotel wasn’t too far away so that they could walk there within twenty minutes, but Sherlock’s decision to undress right in the living room before heading off to have a shower made John wonder whether forty minutes would be enough to get ready. He resisted following Sherlock into the bathroom and instead picked out a new shirt and black trousers to wear before knocking on the bathroom door. 

Sherlock opened, a towel around his head but naked otherwise. John yearned to touch him, but he had learned from their little adventure in Scotland to not give in to the temptation if he did not want to feel flustered for the rest of the evening. Instead, he took a shower in record time and then grabbed a towel and left the room again, all the while Sherlock had done little else but dry his hair and watch John. 

“Get dressed, Sherlock!” John called at him through the open door, and when Sherlock finally appeared in the bedroom, dry and half hard, John was already dressed. “Not now,” John said pointedly to Sherlock crotch, drawing a half annoyed, half petulant noise from Sherlock which he had apparently not planned on making, as his eyes widened in surprise and he turned away quickly.

John couldn’t stop grinning. He tied his shoes, checked for his phone and wallet and then pulled on a light jacket. 

Sherlock looked impeccable when he finally left the bedroom. A crisp white shirt which lay flat against his skin and tailored trousers made John feel underdressed once again. 

“Let’s go,” he said and walked out of the door. Sherlock sighed heavily and John wondered whether he had missed something.

“Are you alright?” he asked as they briskly walked along Marylebone Street. 

Sherlock sniffed and glanced at him without fully turning his head. “Yes,” he finally said, but John stopped. 

“Do you not want to go?”

This made Sherlock turn his head. “No, I do. It’s just that …"

“Hmm?” John slowed down.

Sherlock stopped and exhaled loudly. “I want to touch you,” he said, loudly enough for people around them to turn their heads.

John stopped in his tracks and spluttered. “Sherlock!”

“You made it quite clear that we don’t have time for that.” He walked up to John, standing too close, and John could feel goose bumps rising on his skin despite the warmth of the evening. “But I can’t help it.”

Something twisted deliciously in John’s stomach, similar to the feeling he had had earlier when Sherlock had gotten out of the car, but infinitely more pleasurable. “Anything you want when we get home,” he said, closing the gap between them to kiss him wetly on the lips. “But now we go and enjoy our evening without touching each other.”

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot when John moved away. 

“What is it?” he asked, when Sherlock did follow him.

“You just kissed me,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Hardly worse than you sharing with the world how badly you want to touch me,” John said suggestively and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I did not pay attention to them.”

“Neither did I,” John shrugged his shoulders and walked on. He knew they needed to be more careful, but his heart was too full of love for that. 

Sherlock caught up with him quickly, glancing at John now and then. 

They reached the hotel just before eight and John stopped in front of it to straighten his shirt and tidy his hair. Sherlock’s fingers almost reached out for him and John allowed himself to enjoy the thought that Sherlock was just as desperate to touch him as he was most of the time, too. He felt his ears burn and found that he couldn’t look away from Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock shook his head lightly. “Stop that!”

“Not doing anything,” John countered. 

“We are not going to stay long.”

“And might be late for work tomorrow?”

“Lestrade will have our heads.”

“Well, that’s a risk I am willing to take. Now let’s go inside before I do something inappropriate.”

“Too late for that,” Sherlock stepped away from him and then turned towards the door. 

With a grin, John followed him inside. They both stood very close to the counter when John inquired after Jenson. The concierge phoned him and after a short conversation gave them the number of the suite. A porter followed them all the way to the lift and, to their infinite disappointment, joined them in the ride upstairs. 

Jenson opened his door with laughter on his eyes. “You are incredible.”

John, immediately infected by Jenson’s amusement, pulled Sherlock into the room after him. “What did we do?”

“I thought you were going to change your mind and go back home for a moment.”

“Oh,” John rubbed his face, embarrassed. “You saw us downstairs.”

“You sent the man to come upstairs with us.” Sherlock realised and John laughed out loud, kissing Jess on the cheek in greeting. Then he introduced Sherlock and Jess. 

“Well, once you were inside I wanted to make sure that you’d make it upstairs safely. Wouldn’t want you two to get stuck in an elevator – or, even worse, filmed while being stuck.”

“Thanks for that,” John said drily and drew Jenson into a hug. 

“How was work?” Jess asked and handed both Sherlock and John a glass of lemon water. “Oh, and dinner will be up in a few minutes, I hope you did not yet eat.”

“Barely had time for a shower,” Sherlock said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. John gave him a warning look but Sherlock pointedly looked away. 

Jenson grinned but kept his mouth shut and instead offered them a seat on a rather expansive couch. “What do you want to drink?”

John remembered the bottle of wine that now stood next to Sherlock’s trophy on the mantel piece and the half empty bottle of whisky which stood in the centre of the kitchen table. “Guinness,” he said, enjoying it immensely when Sherlock sat a little straighter all of the sudden. “Sherlock, too,” he added quickly. 

“You sure?”

Sherlock gave a small nod.

“Right then.” 

He called the bar downstairs, ordering Guinness and champagne and five minutes later they all sat around a table, enjoying a delicious dinner. John was glad that Jenson and Jess kept talking about a trip to Japan last winter, taking his mind off work. It also meant that he could stop thinking about how good Sherlock looked in his clothes and how tight his trousers had been during the elevator ride and how this single curl constantly fell into his eyes and how much his fingers itched to push it away. 

They were starting on their second beer when Jenson leaned back in his seat and looked at John and Sherlock in turn. “Let me just say, there’s a bit of a selfish reason for asking you two to come here tonight.”

John put down his drink. “And that would be?”

“Two reasons, actually,” he continued, without answering John’s question directly. 

Jess put down her glass of champagne and leaned forward. “We’re going to get married.”

John frowned. He knew that they were engaged to be married. Sherlock didn’t react at all. 

“In December. We're getting married in Hawaii and we wanted to invite you both,” Jenson continued. “And I wanted to ask you, John, to be my best man.”

John stared at him. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

“Do you mean that?”

“John,” Jess smiled and leaned across the table to take his hand. “He means it.”

John bit his lip, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. 

“Would you?” Jenson asked, getting up and going down on one knee in front of him. 

John burst out laughing, pulling Jenson up and into a hug. “I will. Thank you!”

“Thank you, John!” Jenson hugged him tightly. 

“Is Sherlock going to be the flower girl?” John laughed, turning around to look at Sherlock, who looked strangely pleased. “Wait,” John let go of Jenson. “You knew about this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He told me when you went to see Sally.”

“So you’ve formed a little conspiracy group?”

“Well,” Jenson grinned and pointedly looked at Sherlock, who exhaled loudly and then pulled a little flat box out of his trouser pocket. 

“What’s going on?” John asked, feeling suddenly light-headed. 

“Just to make it official,” Sherlock said and then cleared his throat. “I’m not asking you to marry me, don’t worry.”

John fell down in his seat, staring at the little box and Sherlock’s face in turn. 

“I’ve never done something like this before,” Sherlock admitted, glancing at Jenson, and John began to understand that Jenson had helped Sherlock with his own little proposal. Then he pushed the box towards John. 

John tentatively picked it up and opened it. He found four separate keys inside. 

“John,” Sherlock started, feeling obviously uncomfortable. Both Jenson and Jess nodded at him encouragingly. Sherlock cleared his throat. Then he did it again. By the third time he looked absolutely flustered and John tried his best to swallow back the tears which threatened to choke him. 

“Will you live with me in Baker Street?” he finally managed and John pressed his hand against his lips to keep any undignified noises at bay before he pushed away the box and instead took hold of Sherlock’s hand. 

“Yes, Sherlock. I will live with you. In your flat, or anywhere, really. It doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “Good. That’s why I also got you keys for the estate.”

While Sherlock’s proposal itself was not a surprise to John, the extent of it did shock him a bit. 

“This one,” he pointed at the first key, “is downstairs in Baker Street, and this one is the flat. They keys to your room are in the door. I was afraid you would notice if I’d take them, but they are obviously yours anyway.” His fingers gently touched the two keys he had mentioned and then moved on. “And this is for the old house. The code to shut down the security system is the serial number on the key. People are too stupid to ever suspect, and I don’t want you to have to memorise a fourteen digit number.”

John grinned. “We’ll now have to kill Jess and Jenson, because they are in on the secret.”

Sherlock grinned back, and John knew they were both thinking of Mycroft in that moment. “And this is for the front door of the main house,” Sherlock continued. “Just in case we’re ever going swimming again.”

John laughed. “I love you,” he said and took the box, looking at the four keys symbolising his moving forward and leaving his old life behind. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock looked stunned and for a moment the room was eerily quiet. Then Jenson opened another bottle of champagne with a loud popping noise and Jess laughed and kissed him while champagne ran over his fingers and onto the table, so John decided that there couldn’t be any harm in copying them and got up and forcefully kissed Sherlock. It was only when Sherlock’s chair tipped back and he almost tumbled over that John stopped kissing him and pulled him back. 

“Well,” Jenson said happily as he poured champagne into his and his fiancé’s glasses. “That went well, I think?”

“Did you actually plan this? I mean, this?” John asked Sherlock, pointing at the room, Jenson and Jess and then the drinks and food on the table. Sherlock nodded, still a little overwhelmed with the attack on his mouth. 

John thought back on Sherlock’s strange behaviour earlier and he finally understood why he had held back, even though he clearly would rather have stayed home and made love. It also explained why Victor had not featured in their conversation at all after he had talked to Lestrade. Sherlock had had other things on his mind and John felt a weight lifting off his chest which he had not known was there. He had feared that Victor would take over yet another aspect of their life together and to see that it wasn’t so made John understand that he had all of Sherlock, and not just a part. 

“I think I’ll have some of that champagne now, too,” he said and took Sherlock’s hand under the table and did not let go again until Sherlock excused himself to go to the bathroom. 

When Sherlock was gone, Jess pressed her hand over her mouth and squealed, making both John and Jenson laugh. “He’s changed so much,” she said. 

“You didn’t meet him before.”

“No, but I watched the race and Jenson told me so much about him. He’s adorable.”

“Oh god, don’t let him hear that,” John lowered his voice, but he secretly agreed. 

“You changed, too,” she then added. “Thank god you two worked it out. I would have hated it if you had never gotten out of that state that you were in that Sunday.”

“Me, too, Jess. Me, too.”

“Me, too, if anybody wants my input,” Jenson piped up and John shook his head. “I owe you so much, Jenson.”

“You can make up for that by staying on,” he suggested. 

“Why, what did Lestrade say?”

“That you’ll only stay if he does.”

“And he only stays if you stay, that’s the deal,” John said and raised his glass.

“Did you tell him that?”

“Well, I told Lestrade, but I think Sherlock was quicker than me and made a deal with him. So in the end all he did was agree. Though, he didn’t say what next season is going to look like for him.”

“I’ll test,” Sherlock returned and sat down, but not without gently stroking along John’s shoulder and arm. “I’ll not drive races. It'll be the most sensible option.”

“If I ever have the flu you goddamned better drive for me,” Jenson chuckled and clinked his glass with Sherlock’s. “And in the meantime you can show off on the test track.”

“You just have to school your reflexes and you could be better.”

“The _just_ seems to suggest that it’s easy. You really have no idea how gifted you are, do you? You’re a bloody super hero where it comes to reaction time. And John’s built you a car that is quick enough for you. If I tried to drive in your car, I’d set it into the next wall before I would have made it through the first corner.”

“John can build you a car,” Sherlock started, but Jenson interrupted him. 

“No, mate. John builds your cars. Yours. You helped him get back into the garage. You got him to pick up a screwdriver and you got him to put tyres on your car and let you drive in it. You have gotten him there and much, much further than that. So he’ll build your cars until he’s ready to branch out.”

John held on tightly to his glass. This evening felt surreal. It was as if suddenly all cards were on the table and he felt naked, but not in a threatening way. There were no pretences in their talk, no worming around an issue. Jenson said what he had to say and Sherlock had said what he had wanted to say and John couldn’t remember feeling as safe in the company of anyone as he did just then at that table.

“Can I … say something?” John swallowed a mouthful of champagne and then another one. 

They all looked at him expectantly and Sherlock reached out to touch his knee. John dropped his hand to place his own on top of Sherlock’s. “I’ve been … unwell for so long. I forgot what it feels like to not be anxious all the time. And if I ever came close to forgetting, my shoulder would remind me, or my dreams. I’ve been difficult to be around,” he looked at Jenson and even though he shook his head lightly, John could see that he agreed with him. “And I did not know how to change. How to get better. I was waiting for something, anything, to change so I could, too, but the dreams stayed and the scar stayed and nothing changed, really. And I realise now that I did change, all this time. I only didn’t know it would take so long. And then Sherlock ... happened. He just barged in and took over my life and I didn’t really have time to realise that suddenly I had crossed a line and that I couldn’t go back, even if I wanted to.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Apparently it also turned me into a soppy bastard. But I didn’t realise how alive I could feel until you came into my life. And now I can’t go back to feeling afraid and sorry for myself, not when I have you, and not when I have a team out there that’s worth fighting for. I never really understood how much faith Lestrade put in me, allowing me to work but keep my head down. And how you still made me feel like I was part of the team even if I practically just tagged along. So, what I’m trying to say is thank you, for not giving up on me. And thank you, Jenson, for making me see the light.” He smiled at Sherlock, who looked slightly uncomfortable. “You don’t have to say anything,” John was quick to assure him, and Sherlock exhaled loudly and relaxed. “I am also drunk,” John noted as an afterthought, making everyone laugh. 

"Well," Jenson raised his glass. "Here's to you two. A force to be reckoned with."


	69. Chapter Sixty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys have a lovely few days, whether you celebrate Christmas or not. Thanks so much for sticking with this story for so long! Your comments are what keeps me writing! <3 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

They sat together until midnight, when John yawned so hard something cracked in his jaw and he got up, knowing that they had had much too much to drink and that getting out of bed would be as good as impossible in the morning. Still, the thought of a very likely hangover in the morning and a terrible drive to work seemed entirely unimportant in comparison to how much this evening meant to him. 

They had migrated to the couch, and after another few glasses of champagne, Sherlock had curled up in his arms and John had spent the better part of an hour carting his fingers though his hair. Sherlock looked half asleep when they said good bye. A cab would take them home and at this time of night there was almost no traffic, so they would be in bed within the matter of minutes. 

The air was cool against their faces when they stepped outside, half drunk on champagne and half drunk on the fact that they had been physically affectionate in front of other people without having to hold back. 

Sherlock leaned against him on the ride back home and John had to wake him up when they stopped in Baker Street. He paid for the cab and then kissed Sherlock before he pulled out the little box and picked out the first key, unlocking the door while his heart beat heavily against his ribs. 

Upstairs Sherlock went into the kitchen right away and poured himself a glass of water which he downed immediately. 

“Good idea,” John noted and got himself a glass. 

“You have to stretch,” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes. 

John sighed heavily and stepped closer to Sherlock. “Do you want to make love instead?” he asked suggestively. 

“We both drank too much.”

“Hmm,” John agreed, placing his hands against Sherlock’s chest, wanting nothing more than to get naked and curl up around him. 

“Tomorrow.”

“After work?”

“Very likely.”

“Hmm, I hope we can finish early tomorrow.”

“To pack.” Sherlock said and John had the vague notion that he was making fun of him but things were too fuzzy to pinpoint why. 

“To fuck,” he clarified. “And then pack.”

“Right. Now, exercise.” Sherlock took John’s glass and shooed him towards the bedroom. John undressed until he was only in his pants and went down on his knees. 

“Can I still touch you after?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” John grunted when a flash of pain shot through his shoulder. 

“On whether I’m still awake,” Sherlock disappeared in the bathroom and returned with his toothbrush between his lips. “And on whether you are still awake enough.”

John pressed his eyes closed and while he breathed through the pain which was worse than it had been for the last few days, most likely due to the neglect of his exercises, he pictured Sherlock looking at him, full of want. He had never really had anyone look at him like that. There had been many instances when his partners had initiated sex, or made it clear that they wanted him, but he had never felt the heat of someone else’s gaze in the way he had felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. With Sherlock, it seemed that sex wasn’t necessarily a priority, and he knew that Sherlock did not think about sex when he had other issues to focus on. But clearly, when he looked at John, his thoughts shifted. 

“Keep moving,” Sherlock said gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“I’m not asleep. I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking?” Sherlock sounded rather amused.

“With my eyes closed, yes.” He looked up at him and he had to remind himself of his own personal goal to keep stretching. Sherlock had washed his face and wet his hair a bit, and the shade of his evening stubble and messy hair gave him a rugged look. “You’re so fucking attractive,” John murmured, shaking his head and slowly lowered himself until his chin almost touched the floor before he pressed himself up again just as slowly. 

When he looked at Sherlock again, he found him sitting cross legged on the bed, a small grin gracing his features. “And you swear a lot when you’re drunk.”

“Only a bit now,” John repeated the slow motion push up. “It was worse earlier. I think the pain helped a bit.”

“Maybe you should stop?” Sherlock suggested and John simply dropped to the ground, resting his head on his forearms. 

“Hmm, good idea.”

“You are not sleeping on the floor,” Sherlock moved off the bed and then stood above John, taking hold of his hips and pulling up. 

A flash of arousal shot through John and he grunted. 

“A little help?” Sherlock suggested, but John wanted to see what Sherlock would do all on his own.

“You’re so strong,” he commented unhelpfully when Sherlock readjusted his grip on him to be able to place one arm around his body and pull him up properly. John was secretly impressed but mostly turned on by Sherlock’s strength. 

Sherlock stepped closer and pressed his body against John’s and he could feel his arousal against the small of his back. 

“I need to touch you,” he pulled Sherlock’s arms closer around his body. “And I need you to touch me.”

Sherlock’s hands flattened against his stomach before one hand wandered up to his chest and the other hand slipped into his underwear. Sherlock shuddered behind him when he pulled John out and tentatively stroked him. “More,” John whispered, pressing back against Sherlock. 

Sherlock whimpered and tightened his grip while his hips started moving. 

“You are wearing too many clothes,” John commented after he had pushed his pants out of the way. “And you need to stop being dressed when you come.”

“Well, it’s your fault if I do,” Sherlock murmured against the shell of his ear and John shuddered hard. “Oh, and you’re dehydrated and your blood pressure is low.”

“My blood pressure is definitely not low,” John countered and jerked his hips forward. 

“Right. Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.” Sherlock let go of him and disappeared from the room, leaving John standing with wobbly knees in the middle of the bedroom with his pants around his ankles and an impressive erection. 

Sherlock returned with another glass of water. “Drink,” he commanded and waited until John had emptied the glass before he started stripping. John was reduced to staring at him as he dropped his shirt on the floor and stepped out of his trousers and he smiled lopsidedly at the impressive bulge in Sherlock's underwear.

“Take it off?”

Sherlock smirked and slowly took off his socks before he dropped his pants. Then he stood up straight, watching John calmly. 

“What?” John asked, too tired and too aroused to think coherently. 

“You said you wanted to touch me. So touch me.”

John took a step forward and, having forgotten his underwear restricting his walk, tripped and almost fell over. Sherlock’s composure suffered a bit when he quickly stepped forward to hold John up, and they both laughed and John hugged him close. “Sorry about that.”

“You’re too tired for this,” Sherlock kissed the words against his neck.

“Maybe, but we can’t do this every night. I'd be in an eternal state of desperation.”

“It makes for interesting mornings,” Sherlock argued and bit John’s earlobe. 

“Oh, fuck, do that again,” John moaned while he grabbed Sherlock’s arse and pulled him closer while he pressed his hips forward. 

“Bed,” Sherlock said instead of doing John the favour and he pushed until John let go of him. Sherlock quickly went down on one knee and helped John step out of his pants before he looked up, meeting John’s eyes.

“Please, since you’re down there already,” John asked before he yawned heartily.

Sherlock chuckled and took him in his hand, pressing his cheek against him. “Can we try something?” he asked, seemingly addressing John’s erection rather than John himself.

As if in answer, he twitched and Sherlock made a delighted noise. 

“Jesus, fuck, Sherlock. Please!” John begged and Sherlock rose again. 

“Bed.”

John tried to resist, just for the sake of resisting, but when Sherlock stepped around him and climbed on the bed, he gave in and joined him. 

“On your side,” Sherlock murmured and kissed him quickly. Before John could react, he sat up and lay down again with his hips by John's face and his own face close to John's middle, taking firm hold of John’s hip to scoot closer. 

John stared down at him in amazement. Then his eyes travelled up to Sherlock’s erection which was now only a few inches away from his face. “Alright,” he smiled and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s hip, grabbing his arse and pulling himself closer. For a moment he just pressed his face against Sherlock’s thigh as Sherlock took him into his mouth. He had yearned for his touch all day, and to feel his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock while he was drowning in the heat of his mouth, on top of the pressure of his tongue, made his head spin. “Fuck,” he gasped and tried to bring himself to return the favour, but Sherlock, once he had started, didn’t let off, so John spent the next few minutes trying his best to at least stroke Sherlock while his body trembled with need. 

Eventually, he felt that he was getting close, too close, to coming. “Stop, Sherlock, please stop.”

Sherlock struggled to stop, John could tell, but eventually he let go of him.

“Fuck,” John said again, “give me a chance here.” Sherlock laughed breathlessly.

“Fine,” Sherlock moved his hips to bring his cock closer to John’s mouth and John laughed before taking a firm hold of him and sucking him into his mouth. He knew that if he wanted to get Sherlock anywhere close to his own state, he needed to catch up quickly, so he pulled him in deeply and swallowed before he pulled back a bit to breathe and repeated the action. 

Sherlock was entirely still and John swore to himself that he would get him to call out before he would come. 

His plan dissipated when Sherlock decided that John had had enough of a break and returned to work. It took all of John’s already fragile concentration to continue paying attention to Sherlock’s cock and not just resort to moaning loudly against his skin. 

Eventually he decided that there was only one thing he could do to gain the upper hand and he pressed his hand between Sherlock’s buttocks. To his surprise, Sherlock opened his legs willingly and pushed back when John’s index finger pressed into him. A moment later the lube landed on the mattress next to John’s head. Still sucking on Sherlock somewhat distractedly, John poured lube over is fingers and then pressed harder, grunting when Sherlock jerked forward while momentarily increasing the pressure around John’s cock.

“Don’t you dare bite me,” John warned after he let go of Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled back, too, pressing his lips together in an attempt to keep silent. When John carefully pushed two fingers in and began moving, his control dissipated. He moaned loudly, grabbing John’s cock and stroking him quickly. 

John, in turn, moved his hand faster while he carefully sucked on Sherlock’s glans. Then Sherlock jerked forward, once, twice, before crying out and spilling into John’s mouth. 

John tried his best to swallow, but when Sherlock increased the speed of his strokes, he pulled back and gasped for air. He closed his eyes and tried to pull himself back from the edge, but Sherlock’s smell and taste on top of it all made his head spin and his toes curl. 

He held on tightly to Sherlock’s buttock when he came, shaking and unable to stop moaning profanities. 

When he had regained his breath he took Sherlock in his mouth again and sucked and licked him gently until he squirmed and grunted. For a few more moments he kept sucking until Sherlock pulled his hips out of his reach. 

Sherlock eventually sat up, reaching out to touch John’s face, wiping at the traces of his own orgasm. “Thank you, John.”

John rolled onto his back and placed one foot against Sherlock’s chest which Sherlock immediately petted. “Thank you.”

“I wish we had more time.”

“We do. Not now. Not today. But we do have time.”

“I don’t understand why I want you so much more now than I did before.”

John smiled and moved his foot so he could hook his leg around his back. Sherlock lowered himself on John and kissed him. 

“Same,” John admitted as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Then he yawned deeply and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Come,” he pulled John up with him and once they stood they realised that they were both a bit wobbly on their feet. 

John brushed his teeth quickly while Sherlock cleaned himself up. John had been quite liberal with the lube. 

Sherlock brushed his teeth again and washed his face and then they stood in the blindingly bright neon light of the bathroom with cold tiles under their feet, still slightly drunk and too tired for words and John held out his hand, which Sherlock carefully took before stepping closer. 

They embraced and John relaxed in Sherlock’s arms, feeling infinitely happy to have him in his life. Traces of the memory of their first night together made John sigh deeply. The perfection of the moment crumbled when Sherlock inhaled sharply and mentioned how late it was.

“If we fall asleep right now, we’ll still have five hours,” John murmured against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Well then, off to bed.”

“I suppose we should,” John tried to get even closer to Sherlock, who chuckled and kissed his neck. 

“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Let’s go.”

Neither of them made an attempt to move. Only when John felt himself nodding off he made the effort to stand up straight and move away from Sherlock, but as soon as they were both in bed, he pressed close again, embracing Sherlock with one arm while resting his head on the other, pressing his face against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock pushed his leg between John’s and John moved even closer, and, entangled as they were, they fell asleep. 

Once more, the alarm was almost painful, but John sat up immediately, blinking tiredly at the early morning light. Sherlock slept soundly next to him and the alarm did not seem to reach his consciousness yet. So John turned it off and lay back down, watching Sherlock sleep. He looked exhausted and yet relaxed. 

John very carefully kissed his lips, which were soft and warm and pliant and opened slightly when he applied more pressure, teasing them further apart to deepen the kiss. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and his arms wrapped around John before he weakly attempted to kiss him back. 

“Morning,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s cheeks and nose and eyebrows and forehead before moving down again to his lips. Sherlock opened his eyes and John kissed him again, pushing his fingers into his hair and holding him in place. 

Sherlock let it happen until John moved his hips. Suddenly, Sherlock seemed much more alert and strength returned to his body. With a sigh, he began kissing John back in earnest and when John rolled his hips again, he moaned.

“What time is it?”

“Too early, but too late for a lie in,” John answered, finding himself out of breath.

“Hmm, quickly then,” Sherlock decided and with a sudden move he rolled John over and was on top of him, pushing the sheets away and slipping his hand between their bodies. 

“Oh, god, yes,” John sighed and arched into his touch. 

Sherlock smiled and moved faster, and John was already shaking with the notion alone that their cocks were pressed against each other while Sherlock’s hand was large enough to fit around both of them. 

John watched his face carefully, the small twitch of his lips when he tried to hold back a noise, the flush on his cheeks as he grew more aroused and the softness of his eyes, which was still present despite his alertness. 

By now every breath he drew was a small moan and Sherlock resorted to chewing on his own lip to keep quiet. 

“Don’t hold back. Please don’t hold back,” John whispered and jerked upwards when Sherlock flicked his wrist at the end of a stroke. 

Even though Sherlock did not get louder, he eventually couldn’t hold back the little gasps, grunts and noises caused by his own hand. 

“I can’t wait to make love to you again,” John whispered breathlessly, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock grunted loudly and collapsed on John, jerking hard a few times before he pressed his lips against John’s shoulder. His little moans sounded almost as if he were in pain, but John knew better. He could feel him pulsing against his own cock, utterly fascinated by the experience. 

Sherlock pressed even harder against him and started rutting almost violently, as if he desperately tried to push John over the edge as well. After a few moments, John grabbed his arse to still him. “Calm down, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

For another few seconds, Sherlock continued before he let John stop him. But instead of letting go completely, he simply pushed up his arse and let go of himself, taking John in his hand and increasing the pressure. He could move more easily now with his wet fingers and John realised that it was only the fascination with Sherlock’s orgasm that had kept him from coming. Now that Sherlock was paying attention only to him, it was a matter of seconds before he spurted over Sherlock’s already messy hand and his own stomach. 

Sherlock allowed them both a few seconds before he pulled his hand away and lowered himself on John again, holding up his hand to look at it with interest. 

John chuckled and tried to push it away, but Sherlock was having none of it. He pushed himself up on his elbow and slowly wiped his hand on John’s chest. “You’re filthy,” he then said and John burst out laughing and pulled him back down, wrapping his legs around him. “And so are you.”

“I never thought I’d enjoy this kind of thing.”

“Being clued together by semen?”

Sherlock made a disgusted face and John laughed. “That’s what it is. You swallowed some last night. You’re not disgusted by it.”

“I rather like the thing itself more than to talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” John smiled and kissed him. “We have to get up. I’ll give Mike a call and see if he can drive us.”

“Do you feel okay?”

John shrugged. “I think I have to be standing up to be able to judge. I feel fine right now, though. Just a bit tired.”

Sherlock nodded and then pushed himself up and off of John. He looked at John’s stomach for a moment before he visibly forced himself to get up. “Come take a shower with me,” he said and disappeared in the bathroom.

John simply lay in the middle of the bed for a while, once more overwhelmed by the realisation that this was his life now. “Coming,” he eventually called out, only to hear Sherlock snicker from the bathroom.

“Very funny,” he commented drily when he finally joined him. Sherlock was shaving and John took a few moments to watch him. Then he pressed a kiss behind Sherlock’s ear and stepped into the shower.

Twenty minutes later they were dressed and sharing a piece of toast while John explained to Mike that he’d rather not drive this morning. Mike agreed to pick them up and John popped more bread into the toaster. Mrs Hudson’s tea had been still steaming when they had come out of the shower and John wondered how much she had witnessed of their little morning adventure. 

“Do you feel okay?” John finally thought to ask when Sherlock let himself fall on the couch with a grunt.

“Fine,” he said and reached out his hand. “Come here.”

John let himself be pulled in a tight hug and his heart broke a little when the door bell rang. “Last day at the headquarters,” he murmured. “Last chance to improve the car on home turf.”

“Well, we better go and do that then,” Sherlock smiled and pocketed his wallet and keys, leaving John to put away the plate and two empty tea mugs before he made his way downstairs.


	70. Chapter Seventy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year :)

The ride to Woking was very calm. 

Sherlock had gotten into the back of the car while John was very tempted for a moment to join him there, but knowing Mike would take offense, he had sat in front. 

“Thanks for taking us. I just want to make sure that there’s no more alcohol in my system.”

Mike laughed. “Well, I’m bringing Jenson, too. T’was a long night, no?”

“Hmm,” John agreed. He did feel much better than he had anticipated, but he guessed that it was the adrenaline doing the work – he was still giddy from their sex and the knowledge that there’d be a second race with Sherlock in a car that he had built. He had been so focused on Sherlock and himself that it had really just dawned on him when they had had breakfast that they would have another shot at a win. 

Suddenly, the task seemed much more daunting than it had before, when he had thought of it as the next step of his getting better. Now, sitting next to Mike, who smiled at him with his usual optimism, he understood that it was not just about getting the car ready to perform. It was also about being in the pits again, with the team, making decisions, biting his nails, smelling the petrol and hearing the motors howl. 

John felt his heart beat faster, but before he lost himself in his thoughts, Mike stopped the car and Jenson jumped in. Sherlock’s hand settled on his shoulder and John bent his neck to press his cheek against it for a moment. 

“Good morning,” Jenson quipped and both John and Sherlock groaned. “What, don’t tell me you’re hung-over, gents.”

“Not particularly, no,” Sherlock told him with a straight face and John could see how Jenson’s expression changed when he understood what he was saying. 

“Little sleep, then?” Jenson countered with a raised eyebrow and Sherlock shrugged. 

“Worth it, though,” John grinned at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror. “Oh, Mike,” he then said when an awkward silence threatened to descend on the car. “Jenson’s got news for you.”

“Do you?” 

“Yes, I do,” Jenson leaned forward, obviously excited to share the news. 

“So you’re finally getting married?” Mike countered and Jenson frowned in confusion. “You should wait with the ‘I do’ until you actually do.”

“Did you tell him?” he asked Sherlock, who shook his head.

“Jenson, honestly. I have two, no, make that three, sleep deprived men in my car who all want to be taken to work for fear of rest-alcohol. Since it’s your news and not John’s or Sherlock’s, what else could have occurred apart from your long overdue official engagement to Jessica?”

“Hmm, the way you explain it, it does sound obvious,” Jenson seemed a little disappointed, but Mike half turned in his seat without taking his eyes off the road. “Ah, observation of facts. Something Sherlock taught me,” he grinned. “Congratulations, though. That’s brilliant.”

“Thank you,” Jenson smiled and petted his shoulder. “And thanks for driving us.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. Thank you.”

“And we kind of were already engaged It's just that now we have real plans for the wedding. And, they also have news,” Jenson added after a moment.

“What is that? John moved in with Sherlock?”

John and Jenson both stared at Mike in amazement. “How did you …”

Mike laughed. “Sherlock put down your official address as 221B Baker Street yesterday.”

John turned around in his seat. “You were quite sure of me saying yes, weren’t you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together before he exhaled loudly. “Optimistic, rather.”

John turned around again and found that he could not stop smiling once again. 

A comfortable silence followed and half way to work, John pushed his left hand back between the seat and the door and Sherlock took it, massaging it gently. 

When they reached Woking, John was half asleep again, relaxed by Sherlock’s massage and the familiarity of going to work in Mike’s car. Jenson squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, let’s rock ‘n roll.”

John yawned and got out of the car, waiting until Sherlock joined him before kissing him gently. 

“Oy, get a room,” Jenson joked and pulled John away from Sherlock a bit. “Remember last week, when you thought everything was going to shits?”

John remembered his desperation, which seemed very far away, and nodded. 

“It didn’t go to shits, did it?”

John pulled him into a fierce hug. “No, it didn’t.”

Entering his office, John felt butterflies in his stomach. He was incredibly excited to get down into the garage and start on the car. Before he could do that, though, he would go and see Aki. His shoulder had felt better, but now the dull pain had returned. “Are you going to be okay for a while?” he asked Sherlock before he headed downstairs. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I want you in the garage when it’s time.”

Sherlock looked up and smirked and John rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

“It’s your fault that I like sex now.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to read innuendo into everything I say.”

“It’s more fun, though,” Sherlock smiled widely and then turned around, visibly fighting the urge to move towards John.

“Idiot,” John said fondly before he left the office, making his way downstairs. 

Aki was in the process of packing his equipment bag when John walked into his practice. A few minutes later he found himself lying face down on the massage bed while the physician jammed another shot into his shoulder. The inflammation had returned, if only in a weakened form. Aki stuck a warming plaster on his shoulder and told him to stop drinking alcohol for the next couple of days and to avoid sitting in the same position for longer than necessary. In the end, John was released with a new series of work out sequences which he was supposed to complete every day in rotation. 

He texted Sherlock to come down to the garage and went ahead to sort through the new material. Once he started to arrange his tools, John found that he was partly adopting Sherlock’s system. For a moment he simply stood still, staring down at his hands hovering over his tools. The pain was still there and yet he felt detached from it, as if he’d moved on now and recognised that while it was part of him, it did not define him anymore. He exhaled slowly and then took a deep breath and began taking the car apart.

Sherlock joined him a few minutes later and together they exchanged the parts John had ordered, checked on the motor and gear box, went through all the mechanics step by step and finally Sherlock sat in the car and leaned back, looking at John with a half smile. 

“This is it,” John said, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Should I call Josh in so they can load her up?”

Sherlock placed his hands on the side of the car, drumming his fingers against the as yet unmarked surface. The sponsors’ ads would be applied in Germany, and until then she would remain almost naked. 

John remembered seeing Sherlock drive past him in his unmarked car, appearing rather like a lone ranger than a race car driver. He pulled out his phone and took a photo of Sherlock in the car before he pocketed it again and began putting away the tools. 

Sherlock watched him calmly from inside the car. 

“Thanks for helping, Sherlock,” John chuckled when he closed the tool box. 

“Oh, no problem,” Sherlock said with a sarcastically raised eyebrow. 

“Aki said no alcohol for me for the next few days.”

“Until the champagne on Sunday, then?”

John huffed out a laugh. “Either that, or the champagne at the hotel afterwards to drown our disappointment.”

Sherlock rose and climbed out of the car. “I’ll try not to disappoint.” The silent ‘you’ was very much part of that sentence, John thought and pressed his lips together in a worried smile. 

“If you are stuck somewhere in midfield and spend the race with proper fights, I’ll be excited rather than disappointed.”

“Right.” Sherlock scratched his head and looked at the car once more before he turned towards John.

“What?” John asked, waiting for Sherlock to continue his thought. 

“Well, you’ll be worried.”

“Of course I will be. I can’t change that.”

“But if I fall back, the car will run hot and the brakes will start becoming an issue.”

“But you’ll enjoy it.”

“I can’t get the car through the race in midfield. It’s too strong. I’ll fall through after forty laps.”

John nodded. He knew that the car would perform wonderfully if Sherlock would drive it in his own time, his own style and speed, but he would need to start from pole this time and stay in the top three to carry the car through the race. And yet, John knew it would very likely be the last time he’d see Sherlock in a race and part of him wished that he could see him drive again like he had with Felipe, but within a more complex environment. He knew that Sherlock was able to hold the car solidly at the top without making mistakes, but he would give a lot to see him fight his way forward through the ranks to come out at the top. 

“Whatever happens, I just want you to know that I will be eternally grateful for your help.”

“That sounds final?” It was Sherlock’s turn to look worried.

John shook his head. “Not what I meant to say. I just … I never believed I would be in here again, building cars properly. So whatever happens, no matter if you win or finish last or you don’t finish at all, in the long run it doesn’t matter. It’s already so much more than I believed I could do.”

“It matters to me, though,” Sherlock turned to look at the car. “I wanted this since I was a child. I knew I could never do it, being who I was, behaving how I did. I couldn’t help it. With Victor, I thought I could change, and I did, for a while. I thought we might drive for the same team one day. Lestrade was supportive, but he came to understand that it was impossible after …”

“Wait, Sherlock,” John interrupted him. “Are you saying that you _do_ want to be on the team? That you do want the seat? Long term, I mean?” 

Sherlock stood very still, his back to John, not looking up, so John walked towards him and carefully placed one hand on his shoulder and used the other to gently cup his face, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Because if you do,” he continued, “I will do anything to help to get you there.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’ve come to accept that it will never happen. This is my chance at getting a taste of what could have been, so it does matter to me that I do well on Sunday. I do find that I want to impress you, but I guess that comes with the territory of, umm, romance. But most of all I do want to try and be good. Get another chance of stepping up on the podium without being distracted. Not that I mind much that I was, but I would appreciate a more conscious moment of triumph, just as I would like to be kissed by you again for the first time without panicking. And I know I can’t have that, but I could have the win.”

Sherlock had spoken quickly, a long string of words that John needed a moment to process before he finally raised his other hand to Sherlock’s cheek and pulled him down into a long, gentle kiss, ignoring the security camera above the door. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” he said after they separated. “And my offer still stands. If you want this, I will help you get there.”

“Baby steps,” Sherlock reminded him and John grabbed the collar of his shirt and kissed him again, laughing against his lips before deepening the kiss. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped when John dropped one hand to press him closer by the small of his back. “John, stop, someone’s coming.”

John pulled away just before the door opened and Sally Donovan entered the garage. Sherlock took two steps away from John, trying to straighten his clothes while John flattened his hair and hoped that his own lips weren’t as red as Sherlock’s looked. He cleared his throat. “Sally, how can we help?”

Sally looked tense, but not hostile or upset. For a moment she looked anywhere but John or Sherlock before she finally exhaled loudly. “Victor is here to see you,” she finally said, waiting for another few seconds before she looked up at Sherlock. 

John watched him closely, ready to come to his aid if he was needed. 

“What do you mean, here?”

“You did not answer his calls, nor did you call him back. So he got on a plane and he’s here to speak with you.”

John could see Sherlock wince when Sally mentioned that Sherlock had not taken Victor’s calls and John wondered how often he had tried. He couldn’t remember Sherlock showing any reaction to his phone last night that spoke of repeated calls. But then again, Sherlock had not looked at it at all, really. Had he kept it turned off? 

“I had more important things to attend to,” Sherlock finally said, but his voice did not sound as distant as it usually did when he spoke with Sally. 

Her eyes settled on John before they returned to Sherlock. “Will you come?”

John stepped closer to him, putting himself between Sally and Sherlock. “Will you see him?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, looking entirely out of his depth before he nodded. “What choice do I have?”

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Every choice.”

“Come with me?”

Sherlock grew paler by the second, so John nodded and stepped forward, pushed his hair out of his eyes, set his collar straight and then kissed him again. “Let’s go,” he whispered. 

Sally did look upset now, and John wondered whether she had changed her mind about Sherlock. 

Together they silently walked up to Sally’s office. “He’s inside. Take your time. I’ll be …” she pointed down the hallway before walking away. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and John gently pressed his hand against his shoulder. “It’s not going to get easier if you wait,” he then said quietly, praying that Sherlock would not have a panic attack. 

Sherlock nodded and then lifted his hand to knock. John could see his hand shake before he brought his knuckles down against the wood. 

“Go,” John tried to sound encouraging, but he felt slightly sick in sympathy with Sherlock. 

Eventually Sherlock opened the door, leaving it open for John to follow him inside. 

Victor half sat on Sally’s desk, just as she always did. He looked nervous and tired. His eyes scanned Sherlock quickly, just as John knew Sherlock’s would. For a long moment, everything was silent. Then Victor rose to his full height.

“I’m sorry for just showing up here. I did not know how else to talk to you.”

Sherlock stood entirely still, but John could see that his hands were still shaking. 

“After the call I only … I talked with Sal and she said you … that you and …” his eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John. Then he took a few steps forward and Sherlock’s eyes settled on his leg. “You walk well,” he said flatly. 

“It’s a prosthetic leg. It’s incredible what is possible these days.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he closed it again. Only when Victor took another step forward, Sherlock spoke. “Why are you here?”

“Can we sit down?”

“Yes, let’s sit down,” John put his arm around Sherlock’s waist and guided him over to a small coffee table with four chairs. He felt Sherlock tremble and hoped that he would catch himself. Victor followed after a moment, looking truly worried when he sat down. For a moment, none of them spoke, but then Victor held out his hand. “Victor Trevor,” he said and Sherlock’s eyes settled on his brown hand in John’s white one. Victor’s hand was large, almost like Sherlock’s, and for a second John felt irrational jealousy creep up inside of him. 

“John Watson, we spoke on the phone.”

“That’s why I’m here. Sal was impatient and interrupted you but what you said, it made me understand. Sherlock,” he looked at him, his green eyes full of sadness. “I am so, so sorry.”

John couldn’t bring himself to look at Sherlock. 

“All these years I thought …” he swallowed and then rubbed his face. “I’m such an idiot,” he added and John could sense that he was fighting back tears. John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeezed, and finally he looked at his face again. His eyes were burning. 

“What did you think?” Sherlock finally said, his voice still flat, as if he tried to detach himself from the situation. 

“That you said it to wind me up. That you wanted to irritate me to make sure I wouldn’t get the time I needed. Fuck!” Victor pressed his knuckles against his eyes and John could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body grow. “I was so angry with you!” Victor continued, tears now flowing freely. “But you really meant it, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock suddenly shot up, upsetting the table, making both John and Victor jump. “Of course I meant it. How could you possibly think that I didn’t mean it? It took me years,” his hands clenched into fists, “to be able to finally say it to your face and you …” Sherlock began pacing and John felt reminded of that night after the race when Sherlock seemed to have come to his own conclusion as to why John was there, only this time John knew that he was rightfully angry. “The things you said to me!” His voice broke over the last few words. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? I could have handled a simple ‘no’. I could have come to see that it was misguided and one sided and I would have kept my distance. But you … tore into me! You were the only friend I had and you destroyed me.” 

Sherlock was shaking with anger and hurt and John wanted nothing more than to pull him from the room and hold him until stopped trembling, but he knew that Sherlock needed to say all of what he had to say. He needed to let go of the anger he had bottled up during all of those years, not allowing himself to be properly angry because of his guilt.

“It wasn’t,” Victor finally pushed himself up and turned around to face Sherlock, wiping his face furiously. “It wasn’t one sided.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened before they settled on John’s face. He had been right, but Sherlock had not been entirely prepared for that option.

“I panicked. When you said that I thought that you had found the one thing that could unsettle me. I was so focused on that race, on getting that time and getting that job. But I knew you were better, you always had been. But you’d been so distant then, so focused on your own work. And I felt like a charity case, about to be shown off to the world as a failure, as someone who was desperate enough to take all that money and fall for the rich boy, too, and then have nothing to show for it.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Sherlock wasn’t shaking anymore, and he sounded resigned rather than angry. 

“I never expected you to mean it. You were so …” Victor wiped his face again. 

“Cold?” Sherlock tried. 

“Special,” Victor finished his thought. “You never talked to anyone but me. You never laughed about anybody else’s jokes. You made me feel special, but I knew it was temporary. I had to prove myself. I couldn’t always depend on you.”

“But why did you say what you said to me?” Sherlock stepped closer to Victor, his eyes full of tears now. 

Victor shook his head. “I’m so ashamed. All these years I thought you really had done it to get rid of me.”

“Including the accident?”

“I didn’t think it was an accident.”

“I know,” Sherlock sounded bitter. “Neither did Sally.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“Neither did I, for a very long time.” Sherlock turned away again. “I wanted to hurt you for what you said.”

“You really meant it?” Victor asked, ignoring Sherlock’s confession. 

“Stop asking me that. You know I did.”

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock looked at John again, and for a moment he seemed to forget where he was and what was going on. The edges of his mouth softened and the lines on his forehead smoothed out. Then he exhaled and turned his head to look at Victor again. His voice was calm now. “I don’t remember. I was in shock. I should have never gotten into that car. I apologise for hurting you. I wanted to, I truly did, but that I did has haunted me since it happened. I did love you and I did think that you might possibly feel the same for me after all these years, but I never expected you to react with so much hatred.”

“I think,” Victor wiped fresh tears from his face, “I think what I said to you I said because I had imagined them to be the words you’d say to me if I ever told you how I felt.”

Sherlock winced and he lifted one hand to his face as if to shield himself from those words, but then he dropped it again. “You never knew me at all,” he realised. 

Victor fell down in his seat and buried his head in his hands. 

“John, I need to disappear.” Sherlock looked utterly exhausted all of the sudden. “I have my phone with me. If I don’t answer or text you by four, come look for me?”

John nodded and swallowed against the knot in his throat. Despite it all, Sherlock kept his promise of telling him when he’d walk away, something he had frankly not believed Sherlock would do. 

Sherlock exhaled loudly, keeping eye contact with John for another few seconds until John forced himself to smile. For a moment Sherlock’s expression changed again and he looked vulnerable and open and impossibly young to John before he turned around and walked towards the door. “Thank you, Victor, for clearing that up. I appreciate that you came here to speak with me. There’s a box with your belongings under Sally’s desk, John thought you might want to have it.” With that he opened the door quietly and was gone. 

John felt conflicted about the whole situation. Sherlock seemed much less affected by Victor’s presence than he had initially when they had walked into the room and found him there. Victor’s explanation made sense to him, but he hadn’t been there. He hadn’t gotten to know the teenagers and how they behaved around each other. He couldn’t judge either of them for what they had done. It felt strangely liberating to at least have seen the two together and to be able to fill in the pieces of the puzzle that was Sherlock. 

“Do you want a cuppa?” John asked Victor, who finally looked up. 

“I really didn’t think he was gay,” he said, his voice rough. “He never seemed to be interested in anyone at all. Never looked at girls or boys. Never made jokes, never remarked on anyone’s looks. I thought he just wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. He hated to be touched and he always felt uncomfortable when people around him were hugging or kissing each other. He’d leave the room when there was a sex scene on the telly, or pretend to be reading something. But he was so gorgeous and he was kind to me. Not always, of course, but he was not as distant with me as with anyone else. He told me things that he never told anyone else.”

“I know what that feels like,” John admitted, still feeling a strange kind of jealously simmering under his skin. He wondered whether it was because Victor had experienced exactly what John was currently experiencing and treasuring or whether it was because Victor was incredibly handsome and John feared that Sherlock might suddenly remember how it felt to love this man. His eyes, despite being red from crying, stood out starkly against his dark skin. They were captivating. He was as tall as Sherlock, but had wider shoulders and more obvious physical strength. He hadn’t changed much since that picture he had seen, and John could easily see why Sherlock had been attracted to him. 

“Is he happy?” Victor asked, blinking away fresh tears. 

John scratched his head behind his ear. “It’s complicated.”

“But you and him, you are together. He’s with you.”

“Yes. He’s with me.” John couldn’t suppress a smile. 

“You love him?”

“Very much,” John admitted, feeling strange saying it to Victor. 

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?” 

“What happened to him after the accident? I know I have no right to ask but you’re here and you seem … right for him. And I don’t think he’d ever tell me.”

John pursed his lips. “I need a cup of tea, and you look like you could use one, too.”

Victor wiped his face again and John got up to hand him a box of Kleenex which sat on Sally’s desk. “Give me a few and I’ll be back with tea and then I’ll tell you what I know.”

John almost expected him to be gone, but when he returned to Sally’s office he found Victor sitting at the table, the box from Scotland in front of him. He held a small matchbox car in his hand and looked so sad that John put down the mugs and placed his hand on his shoulder, hoping that it offered some reassurance. 

Then he took the car from his hand and placed the tea in it before sitting down across from him. “What do you want to know?”


	71. Chapter Seventy-One

Victor shook his head for a moment before he caught himself and sat up straight. “I can’t believe I had it so wrong!”

“Victor, before you continue, I need you to know that I’ve not been with him for long. I’ve known him only for a couple of weeks, and he’s told me a few bits and pieces, but you’ve known him for much longer than I have. So I presume that you know him better than I do.”

“Apparently not,” Victor countered. “I would have never believed that he was feeling that way. It was inconceivable.”

“Well, he does come across as a little … distant.”

“How did you find out?”

“How he felt?”

“Yes.” 

“Not by myself. And I understand why you might have misjudged his behaviour, but you see, I don’t think I could have kept how I felt to myself for any longer than I did. It was a blessing that Mycroft tried to warn me off.”

“Mycroft told you?”

“Well, he was very concerned that he’d be hurt again, so he told me to keep my distance. Quite ironic, in the end.”

“So you just told him how you felt?”

“It was very difficult to get through to him. It might be his experience with you, or a general issue, but he has a very hard time trusting anyone, and he kept his cards close to his chest. He thought I was with someone else, because Mycroft had strongly suggested it. So even when I told him how I felt, he wouldn’t quite believe me. It took a little convincing.” John smiled at the memory of their first proper kiss. 

Victor nodded. “I see.”

“I know what it feels like to want him and to feel that there’s just a whole world between you.”

“Did he talk about me?”

John felt his heart contract at the thought of Sherlock’s sadness. “Yes.”

Victor chewed on his lip. “Not favourably, I imagine.”

“What you said to him has stayed with him. He was in pain, not knowing what happened that day. He blamed himself. Probably blamed himself for what you said to him as well. I’ve seen him with people he’s known all his life, and he tends to believe that they think the worst of him. He can’t handle compliments. He has dreams, panic attacks. He’s not in a good place. But neither was I when I met him. I like to think we’re good for each other.”

Victor reached out his hand across the table. John hesitantly put his own in his. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough. “Thank you for taking care of him. I thought of him all the time, but I always believed that he despised me. I always thought it was better to not get in touch, to not ask Sally, to not raise his anger again. What an idiot I’ve been.”

“What happens now?” John asked and Victor shrugged defeatedly. 

“I go back home?” 

“Do you want to talk to him again?”

“I don’t think that’s my decision to make.” 

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Knowing that I fucked up a possible relationship with him? Knowing that I hurt him so badly? I don’t know.”

“You don’t feel any resentment towards him?”

“You mean because of my leg?”

“Sally’s been intolerable about it.”

“She won’t be when she knows what really happened.”

“I just want him to heal,” John admitted to his own hands, feeling suddenly exhausted. “You know, he has those moments when he’s so alive and they make those dark moments so much harder to bear.”

Victor looked at him with new tears in his eyes while John barely held himself together. “Then I think I’ll go and leave him alone. You seem to be the best thing that could have happened to him.”

“I came here with him to defend him,” John said with a sad smile. “You have no idea how glad I am that that’s not necessary. I think if you had shown up here and repeated what you said back then, I don’t think I could have …,” John couldn’t continue. The thought of seeing Sherlock as terrified and upset as he had been that night at his flat or when they were about to get the box to Sally broke his heart. “I need him to be happy,” he finally managed. 

Victor nodded. “Tell him … no, don’t tell him I’m sorry. He knows. I told him. I’ll leave you be.” He stood up and finished his tea. “Thank you for bringing the box. I figured he’d have thrown my things out.”

“He kept everything. Never looked at it, as far as I know, but you did mean a lot to him, and you’re not just a bad memory, if that helps at all.”

“Take care of him?”

John nodded. “I’ll do my best. He’s mostly taking care of me.” 

Victor smiled and John noticed that he looked much better than he had just a moment ago. He remembered how nervous he had looked when they had walked into the room and while Sherlock had certainly been close to a break down, John was sure that Victor had been similarly terrified of meeting Sherlock again after all this time, especially after realising his mistake. He had come all the way from Australia to talk to him. 

“Thank you for coming here. He needed to get this sorted and I think, despite it all, this was for the best. At least now he has some answers and that’s usually what he needs to move on.” John shook his hand and then turned to go. “Good bye, Victor.”

Victor nodded at him and John left Sally’s office with mixed feelings. It would take him a while to process what had just happened, but at the same time he felt incredibly relieved. Victor wasn’t some terrible homophobic person who resented Sherlock’s feelings. 

He pulled out his phone and called Sherlock. When his mailbox answered, he texted him to let him know he’d be in their office, worrying that Sherlock might have taken to walking again and possibly ended up god knows where. 

He needn’t have worried. Sherlock sat in the simulator, driving messily but fast through a track John didn’t immediately recognise. He closed the door quietly and then walked up to Sherlock, standing next to the simulator for a while, watching the screen, but not Sherlock. He couldn’t look at him, fearing to see pain on his face. 

Sherlock took another few turns before he let go of the steering wheel and looked up at John. And John bent over to kiss Sherlock’s forehead and to hug him clumsily. “Do you want to come out of there?” he asked quietly. 

For a few more moments Sherlock didn’t move, but then he nodded and pushed himself up, climbing out of the simulator. John immediately pulled him into his arms and Sherlock held on tightly, his fingers digging into John’s back. After a while he turned his head and kissed John’s neck before he pulled back slightly. 

“He was really here, right?”

“Yes, he was here.”

“He said that he …”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t hate me?”

“No.”

“He didn’t mean what he said.”

“No.”

“I didn’t try to kill him on the track.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. But I don’t think it matters.”

“You were there with me. You will always tell me when I think I just imagined it, right?”

John bit his lip and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“I don’t trust myself to remember.”

“I’ll tell you as often as you need to hear it.”

Sherlock pressed his face against John’s neck and inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what to do,” he eventually confessed. 

John stroked his back. “You keep going.”

“Tell me something about Germany.”

“There are rivers and some mountains and cities and there’s a lot of bread, apparently,” John started and Sherlock’s arms tightened around him so hard John couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then he relaxed and pulled back a bit. John smiled and kissed him and Sherlock brought up one hand to cup John’s face and deepen the kiss. 

“Right,” he said eventually, licking his lips and moving an arm’s length away from John. “There’s a final briefing at 4. I forgot to tell you that Lestrade told me to tell you.”

“Do you think you’ll be okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m okay.”

With a spark of happiness John noted that he had not answered with his usual ‘I’m fine’, which always implied that he was anything but. 

“Good. I got some new exercises for my shoulder. I need you to force me to do them.”

“What exactly do you mean by _force_?” Sherlock asked, smiling lopsidedly. 

“You know what I mean.”

“Touch myself while I watch you on your knees?”

John laughed and pulled him into another kiss. “Something like that. Oh, yeah, and the driver’s parade is going to be a two drivers a car parade. So people will definitely notice you this time. Better work on that smile’n’wave.”

“Do I have to?”

“Same answer as two weeks ago. Only this time I can do this when you ask questions that you know the answer to,” John grinned and blew a raspberry against Sherlock’s neck. “We should get some lunch while we have the chance. And then I want to see you take Hockenheim in the simulator.”

“Could you, maybe …,” Sherlock looked uncomfortable and John immediately nodded. 

“Of course, what do you want?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Food.”

“Right,” John smiled and kissed him again.

“We’ve truly done away with that silly rule, haven’t we?”

“It was your rule to begin with.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Good. Me, too.”

“Still.”

“No PDA, I know.”

“No what?”

John grinned. “Feeling you up in public.”

“Well, yes.”

“More so at home, though.”

“Counting on it.”

John kissed him once again and then made his way towards the cafeteria. He ran into Jenson in the hallway. 

“You look a bit rough,” he commented quietly.

“A lot going on.”

“You alright?”

John nodded. “Yeah.”

“Sherlock okay?”

“Hope so.”

“Just asking, in case he doesn’t want to drive and I could use his car instead … ”

John laughed and playfully slapped his wrist. “Never!”

“Did you tell him about the driver’s parade?”

“Prepare for some world class whining.”

“He was doing alright last time.”

“He wasn’t alone on the backseat of a car with you.”

“You’re making it sound dirty.”

“Your thoughts, not mine.”

John was thankful for the distraction and for the fact that he found himself loading two plates full of food without once looking up at the people around him. He returned to Sherlock without knowing whether Victor or Sally had been present and somehow he felt entirely fine with that. Some part of him felt sorry for Victor, but a much more prominent part of him felt elated that it was over; that Sherlock had had the chance to face his fears and that he had done it and now knew the truth, and would hopefully be able to move on. 

Sherlock sat on the couch when John returned. His phone lay on the table in front of him. 

“Hey,” John smiled at him, doing his best to pretend that nothing had happened at all. 

“I texted him,” Sherlock admitted, his expression clearly telling John that he was thankful for his attempted nonchalance. 

“To say what?”

“Good bye. I never said good bye properly, not with him hearing it, anyway.”

John remembered that Sherlock had told him that he’d been to the hospital after the accident and he was suddenly glad that he hadn’t told Victor about it.

“Let’s eat?” he suggested and placed a plate in front of Sherlock before sitting down on the floor in front of the table. Sherlock’s eyes lit up and he joined him there, sitting close enough for their elbows to touch. 

“You could get a bigger couch?”

“I enjoy marvelling about how you managed to actually sleep on it.”

“A lifetime ago,” Sherlock said with a half smile and knocked his knee against John’s. 

“Yes,” John agreed and started eating. “You know, I think I might see Harry after we come back from Germany. I still owe you childhood pictures.”

“Ah, yes, awkward eightees and nineties hair.”

They both chuckled and then continued eating in silence. Sherlock took a bit longer than John again, something which amused him, considering how impatient he was about a lot of other things. Although, John thought with a flutter in his chest, Sherlock had been adapting to his tempo more or less. Once Sherlock had finished, John took his plate and placed in on his own.

“Did you not get any dessert?”

“Sorry for not getting dessert.”

They had spoken at the same time and for a moment they just looked at each other before they started to giggle. Sherlock dropped back on the floor and John looked down on him, loving the laughter lines around Sherlock’s eyes. With a sigh, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against Sherlock’s lips. 

“You have to get up again. I can’t handle you lying on the floor like this,” he clarified and Sherlock cocked an eye brow. “Yes, it’s stupidly attractive to me, so please do sit up again?”

Sherlock bit his lip and pushed himself up by his elbows. “Better?”

John’s eyes raked over his body and he shook his head. “I can barely look at you standing up. This is not acceptable.” 

Sherlock turned to lie on his side, coquettishly placing his arm on his hip and looking up at John from under his eyelashes. 

John’s breath caught in his throat and he reached out for him, but stopped an inch before touching him. “No. Not here. Not now.”

Sherlock sighed and dropped on his back again, seemingly disappointed that he hadn’t gotten John to give in. 

“You’ve done this before,” John commented, getting to his feet. “You’ve tested me.”

“Have I?” Sherlock feigned innocence, but John knew he was playing. 

“You figured out quite quickly how I react to you.”

“I’ve never had so much power over anyone.” Sherlock admitted. 

“Is that why you do it?” John sat down in his chair, if only to make sure that he wouldn’t get up again to continue where they had left off.

“Maybe I just want to see what happens?”

“Or you want to test yourself?” John suggested with a grin. “Because I do remember quite distinctly how you ….” 

A loud knock cut off his sentence and they were both left blushing when the door opened and Josh stuck in his head. 

His eyes settled on Sherlock on the floor. “Erm, are you two quite alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded and managed to keep a straight face whereas John couldn’t quite keep from grinning.

“Right, just letting you know that the cars are loaded and the briefing has been rescheduled to start in twenty. Everyone seems to have been incredibly sufficient today, so it’ll be an early night for all of us, I reckon."

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?”

“You’ll be expected to be on call the entire weekend.”

John wondered what Lestrade had planned. “Sure, yeah.”

“Good,” Josh smiled. “Are you okay with the rescheduling?”

“Fine,” John said and Sherlock nodded. 

“See you in a bit, then.” He gave Sherlock one last confused glance and was out of the door before either John or Sherlock could say anything else. 

For a moment they both stared at the door before Sherlock turned around to face John. “You were saying?”

John laughed. “Never mind.”

“I concede it. You do have a certain … pull that I have not experienced before.”

“A pull?” John grinned. “Tell me more.”

“No. Not here. Not now,” Sherlock said with a smirk and rose to his feet. John smiled back at him.

“Are we ready to go to Germany?”

“You’ve adapted the car to the conditions we will most probably face in Germany and you have another car which, if all else fails, will still do the job if it has to – or I have to, for that matter. We’ve just been told that we will be home sooner than expected … to pack, of course. I’ve done the track in my mind a couple of times and will do it again in the simulator after the briefing. I’ve considered all possible strategies for us this weekend, including Jenson’s, though he might do something unexpected, which always has to be taken into account, too. I might tentatively suggest that we have been thorough despite the break, thanks to your frankly astonishing talent, which you do not give yourself enough credit for, and you haven’t had any major anxiety issues in the past few days so, in summary, I suggest that we are, in fact, ready to go to Germany.” 

John scratched the back of his head, feeling both flattered and embarrassed by Sherlock’s praise and certainty. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Let’s go?”

“Yes, good call,” John huffed out a breath and then held the door open for Sherlock, who walked past him close enough for John to feel his breath tickle his cheek. 

“You’re impossible,” he murmured as he closed the door.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock grinned and, for the first time, walked ahead of John, his back straight and his steps sure. John prayed that Victor had already left the building. 

They made it to the conference room without meeting either Victor or Sally, and when they all sat down, Lestrade announced that Sally was needed elsewhere and would leave for Germany in the evening ahead of everyone else to meet with the press. He looked at Sherlock for a moment before his eyes settled on his list. 

There were some pre-scheduled interviews to take place, as well as an autograph session on Saturday, whose announcement made Sherlock roll his eyes and Jenson giggle. John texted Sherlock a simple _Told you so!_ to which Sherlock didn’t quite turn around, but inclined his head as if to scold John silently. 

Lestrade also talked about the weather conditions and the consequent tyre choices, reminding the team to pay particular attention to the tyre wear and to report back with any anomalies.

Then he asked the head of each department to summarise the major issues they had faced since Silverstone, and when it came to the mechanics, John suddenly found that everyone was looking at him expectantly. In a way, he had always felt that being the leading mechanic was rather an excuse to keep out of everybody’s hair than to be the actual head of his department. 

He swallowed at the realisation that the perception of everyone else, even if it had matched his own, had changed profoundly, and he cleared his throat. _I fell in love with this brilliant man who, until very recently, thought he had been hated by his only childhood friend. He also never had sex with another person before me and I find that I can barely keep my hands to myself when he’s close. My shoulder injury has been acting up again and I’ve been on and off painkillers, failed at properly keeping track of my exercises and instead went on a romantic weekend trip to Scotland with him._

John checked himself, licking his lips. 

“The motor we built has remained in good condition even after Silverstone. I’ve made some adjustments to make sure that quick changes in tempo will not cause it to overheat. The traction had been improved by wider air canals. However, tyre wear and overheating remain the two major points of focus this weekend. But in general, both cars are in great shape.”

“Thank you, Watson,” Lestrade smiled at him and John felt the pride he had felt in Sherlock that first week return. He had been incredibly proud of what Sherlock could do and what he had made him do, but he hadn’t really thought about the fact that the car they had built together was still the best thing he had ever built and that, despite it all, he had miraculously created a prototype of a car which had, with a lot of work during the winter, the potential to become a championship car – a car that was able to compete with the strong teams again.


	72. Chapter Seventy-Two

Once the briefing was over and everyone had been reminded to pack their tooth brush, a joke Lestrade made every time before they left the HQ for a race that wasn’t on home turf, Anderson leaned over and nudged John’s arm. John turned around, expecting a snarky remark. Instead, his colleague looked a bit sheepish. “Is he alright?” he asked and John was gobsmacked for a moment. 

There were a lot of things he wanted to say to Anderson, but he figured that none of them were a good idea. “He is fit to drive, yes,” he finally said and rose, walking towards Sherlock, whose expression gave away how highly he thought of the notion of giving autographs to strangers for two hours. 

“I’ll forget about it, so please remind me when I have to be anywhere?”

“I’m not your PA, Sherlock.”

“Fine, I’ll have my phone remind me.”

“What do you mean, forget?” John asked after a moment, realising that Sherlock didn’t fear to forget, which would have been absurd anyway, considering that he remembered everything to a degree that he believed some of his thoughts were memories. 

“I’ll delete the information so it won’t distract me.”

“What are you talking about?” John nudged him towards the door. 

“My brain’s like a log book. What is important goes in there, and what I don’t need is thrown out. You note down the conditions of the race track, the weather, humidity, survival chances of the tyres, but you do not write down who is leading the music charts of the country the race is taking place in, nor how much a loaf of bread costs. It might come up in conversations or interviews or when you read up on the country you’re going to, but you don’t need that information for the race and the race is what’s important. So I’ll forget about Saturday.”

“You can make yourself forget?” John asked, wanting to make sure that he understood what Sherlock was talking about. 

“I’ve taught myself to, yes.”

“So you could, potentially, forget …” John leaned in closer and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. 

“I can’t. Not if … there’s an emotional component.”

“So you can’t make yourself forget that first kiss?”

“Oh,” Sherlock shook his head as if readjusting his thoughts. “I thought you were talking about Victor.”

“Oh, no. I mean. God, maybe I should have, shouldn’t I? At least suggested that?”

Sherlock bit his lip and started walking again, his strides longer now. “No, it’s fine.”

John could see him smile and for the first time John believed that Victor’s visit really had had the desired effect. 

It was only when they were back in the office that Sherlock looked at John and sighed deeply. “I wish I could, but I don’t think I will. And maybe I don't really want to forget it after all. It’s a half memory, too many hormones in my system. I think I was in shock.”

“I think I know how to fix that,” John smiled and sat down in his chair without explaining himself. Sherlock sighed again, this time much more dramatically and obviously with the single purpose of making John pay attention to him, but John stared at the screen of his computer and pretended to ignore Sherlock. 

Sherlock spent the better part of five minutes noisily doing nothing while John tried his hardest not to laugh at him. Eventually, Sherlock began to strip, which John noticed only when his shirt landed on his shoulder. 

He cursed at his own weakness when he turned around to watch him. Sherlock smirked when he dropped his trousers, but at least he kept on his underwear as he stepped into his fireproofs and then the suit. 

John chewed on his lip as he got dressed, and smiled absent-mindedly when Sherlock forced his curls under the balaclava before putting on his helmet. 

“I hate to tell you this, but you should get a bigger suit,” John told him when he climbed into the simulator. “You’ll sweat like a pig in this one.”

“I’ll sweat in any suit, but it doesn’t matter. When I drive I concentrate on that and nothing else. Well, if I am not suddenly distracted, that is, though that was very unusual.”

“Oh, great, I’m glad you’ll be concentrating on driving while you die of a heat stroke.”

“We’re not in Dubai, John. We’re in Germany.”

“Which is currently suffering from severely hot weather.”

“Get me Hockenheim?” Sherlock asked, pointing at the computer.

John sighed and entered the track, putting him down at pole and adding 40+°C in the shade, knowing that the programme would kill the tyres after a couple of laps. 

“Go ahead.”

Sherlock concentrated on the screen, his body entirely still. At red lights out he shot forward, immediately taking the ideal line, pushing ahead of the simulated cars behind him. He pushed and pushed, cutting the corners almost too closely, going too fast before the motor had run hot enough, but for some reason, the numbers remained acceptable. After six laps, Sherlock led the pack by seven seconds and he began taking the laps a little less harshly. He took the ideal line, but didn’t push hard enough to gain any more time and instead drove constant lap times. After fifteen laps, the tyres showed severe abrasion and the motor ran dangerously hot. 

“You should come in for new tyres,” John suggested, but Sherlock ignored him. He took five more laps, pushing harder again, gaining another two seconds on the pack before he requested a stop. 

The computer took its time putting on new tyres and refilling his tank. John guessed that he wanted to come in again later in the race, but he doubted that the motor would make it. 

Half the field had overtaken him when Sherlock re-entered the track. John had started chewing on his lip and had to remind himself that this wasn’t a real race. 

Sherlock, like a shark, began shadowing the car in front of him, pulling close and pushing hard at the Hairpin. His opponent disappeared from sight before Sherlock found himself stuck behind two fighting cars. 

“Impress me,” John said, watching Sherlock closely. 

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and then pushed down on the accelerator. A few seconds later he drove so close to one of the cars that John felt the need to sit down. His tactic worked and the simulated driver closed the door on him, allowing the other driver to pass. The moment there was enough room on the track, Sherlock swerved left, then right and left again, letting himself fall back for a moment before he simply pushed on and managed to get past his first opponent on the Sachskurve. He overtook the second driver when he accelerated out of the Südkurve and all John could do was to shake his head and curse silently. 

Seeing Sherlock drive through the Motodrom gave him goosebumps. The noise would be unbelievable. It was the largest of the stadiums and therefore one of the favourite GPs of many drivers. John had always loved the idea that it was the fans that made a race special, not the track itself. However, Sherlock and crowds didn’t go well together, and yet he knew he would drag him out there and make him listen and possibly steal a kiss where nobody could see them, just for kicks. 

“John, stop it,” Sherlock complained from inside his helmet.

“What, I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re thinking, very loudly.”

“You’re wearing a helmet, there’s no way …”

“It’s distracting.”

“What, me, thinking? Or me just being here?” John was almost sure that Sherlock was just making things up, but then again you could never know with Sherlock. 

“That, too, but not to the degree…,” Sherlock overtook another car, “that your thinking is distracting me.”

John shook his head. “Fine, I’ll stop thinking.”

“Good.”

John walked over to the computer and checked the results. The motor was running very hot now and the new tyres were already beginning to blister. And yet Sherlock kept moving forward in the field, never quite safe in his manoeuvres, but always successful. 

The first warning came in lap 50. Sherlock had issues changing gears and the tyres were entirely run down. Sherlock requested a stop and took the car in, but John knew that he’d have issues now. He had overdone it. The car was filled up to half a tank, the tyres changed and Sherlock waited a few seconds after he had green light to go again.

John had no idea what purpose it would serve to let five more cars pass, but he saw what Sherlock was doing when he came out. He had waited for the largest space between cars and could drive almost by himself for another five laps, going much more carefully than he had before. Seven cars went in for pit stops and fell in behind him and he was left with another six cars to overtake. 

John kept his eyes on the computer, fearing a loss of the motor or the gear box any minute now. And yet, Sherlock began his attack, carefully pulling close until he could pin himself to the opponent’s back using their slip stream, and then he waited for the perfect moment to attack. He managed to get ahead of four other cars that way, but even though he was third now, the two leading cars were more than four seconds ahead and the race would be over in three laps. 

Despite being almost sure that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to make it, he found that he was intensely hopeful nevertheless. With two laps to go, Sherlock tackled the first car ahead of him and as if my miracle, it was just then that they had to overtake a slower car. With an incredibly smooth move, Sherlock tricked the faster car into closing the track on the right, and he pushed straight ahead, placing himself between the two cars and coming out in front. 

“Fucking hell,” John cursed, pressing his left hand against his mouth to keep from saying anything else. 

The computer issued a serious warning concerning the tyres but Sherlock ignored it entirely and sped up once more. John could practically feel the tyres falling apart underneath him, and yet he pushed, lapping another slower car and finding himself behind the leading car. 

They only had half a lap to go when the computer began beeping loudly, warning of severe engine-heat and Sherlock simply put the car into a higher gear and continued. The Sachskurve saw Sherlock’s car grow unstable. He slid out too far and almost off the track, but he accelerated once more and set himself next to the other car a few yards before the finish line. A last change into a lower gear and another push and Sherlock was half a car length ahead of his opponent and won the race. Before he had reached the Nordkurve, his motor went up in flames. 

John rubbed his face, feeling slightly high with nerves and the shock of Sherlock’s precise performance. While he had doubted him, he was sure that he had planned this. It was John’s least favourite version of a successful race, but Sherlock had finished first and that was all he had said he would do.

Sherlock climbed out of the car and took off his helmet and balaclava. He was sweating and had to wipe his eyes and forehead but he grinned at John as if he had performed a magic trick and had fooled everyone.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“I know that Lestrade would order me in before that would happen,” he pointed at the screen where the car was still burning on the track, “but I wanted to see if it was possible.”

“How did you know how the cars would react?”

“I forced them.”

“How? It’s a computer.”

“Algorithms,” Sherlock simply stated. “Not much different from narrowing down human reactions.”

“Please don’t drive that way on Sunday?”

“Why not?”

“Because you might force reactions out of the cars that follow algorithms, but you can never know what happens when one of them panics or gets angry or simply makes a mistake.”

“I’ve analysed the style of each driver. I know how they react.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed and took the helmet out of his hands. “Please?”

“I’ll just be myself,” Sherlock answered, avoiding John’s eyes. 

“If you have an accident and it’s your fault, I am out of this,” John warned, needing Sherlock to understand that he couldn’t really handle any purposefully reckless driving. Not yet. 

Sherlock stopped moving altogether. For a few moments he simply stood there, looking at a point to the right of John’s hip. Then his face fell and his eyes darted up to John’s face. “Out of what?” he asked flatly. 

“Not us, Sherlock,” John explained gently. “Never us. But I can’t do this,” he pointed at the helmet, “and know that you are taking unnecessary risks.”

“Like scaling a wall to get to an open window to open a door?” Sherlock scrunched up his nose as if he knew what John was saying but still felt the need to challenge him.

“Can you win this race with a different strategy?” John asked, putting the helmet down on his desk.

“I think so.”

“Then please, choose the locksmith instead of breaking in?” 

Sherlock sighed. 

“Please, Sherlock?”

“Fine, yes. I’ll reconsider.”

“Thank you.”

“It wouldn’t be the same anyway, as your car is far superior to the simulator.”

“Sherlock!”

“I am merely stating …”

John growled and stepped forward, half annoyed, half endeared with Sherlock, and Sherlock froze again, watching John’s approach with wide eyes. 

John stopped an inch away from his face, his eyes settling on Sherlock’s lips while he licked his own. 

Sherlock dropped his chin minutely, his lips parting slightly. John inhaled deeply and looked at his eyes. 

“You liked it,” Sherlock finally said when the tension between them grew unbearable and the only other option would have been to kiss John. 

John remained where he was, but he managed to force a frown onto his forehead even though he secretly agreed with Sherlock. “You were reckless and dangerously close to losing the car several times. You ignored the warnings and the recommended protocol proposed by me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, a smirk pulling at the left corner of his mouth. 

“The car burned out, theoretically with you still in it.”

“The computer generated car, yes.”

“With you still in it.”

“That’s why we wear fireproofs.”

“You were putting yourself and your fellow drivers at risk.”

“Yes.”

“To show off?”

“Maybe?”

“I told you to, didn’t I?” John realised sheepishly and Sherlock’s carefully controlled expression melted into a smile. 

“I took some liberties with the interpretation as to how far that ‘impress me’ was meant to go.”

“And I was impressed.” John admitted, closing the final distance between them and pressing his face against Sherlock’s chest. For a moment he resented that there were several layers of fabric between his face and Sherlock’s skin. “Just as I was impressed with you climbing up that blasted wall.”

Sherlock chuckled quietly and pressed a kiss to John’s temple. 

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” John continued, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back and squeezing tightly. 

“I promised not to do it again,” Sherlock reminded him. “And I intend to keep that promise. It’s your loss that you won’t get to see me climbing walls naked anymore.”

“I get to see you do other things naked, though,” John chuckled against the suit. “Speaking of, shouldn’t we start packing up?”

“Certainly,” Sherlock agreed and kissed John’s head. “Now if you would only let go of me I am sure I could be of much more help …”

“Aww, shut it,” John interrupted him and pulled back before grabbing Sherlock’s head with both hands and pulling him into a long kiss. 

To John’s surprise, Sherlock did nothing to end the kiss. Instead he simply held on, occasionally increasing the pressure around John’s back, and kissed him back enthusiastically. When John finally pulled back, Sherlock followed him and stole another kiss before John turned away from him, mostly for the sake of not being tempted to start all over again, and let his eyes wander through the room. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” John said, stretching carefully. He grabbed his laptop and placed it into his official McLaren messenger bag, adding his charger, external drive and headset. It always felt slightly strange for him to use his official bag, clearly marking him as part of the team, though he had never before wondered why that was. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock simply stood where John had left him standing and followed his movement with his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” John asked when he had finished packing up. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, but he still stood in the middle of the room, unmoving.

“Sherlock!”

“I wasn’t done kissing you.” Sherlock complained, sounding like he felt quite sorry for himself. 

John put down his bag and walked up to him, burying his hands in Sherlock’s hair and pulling him into another kiss. Sherlock moaned quietly against his lips and John kissed him harder, feeling heat pooling in his stomach and groin. 

When Sherlock moaned louder, John pulled back. “Not here,” he clarified. “Be useful and pack your things and get dressed. I’ll go and find us a car to take us home.”

He left Sherlock in his office, his trousers tight and his face flushed. 

Making sure to give Sherlock time to get ready, he passed by Lestrade’s office. He knocked, but didn’t hear a sound from inside, so he knocked again and then carefully opened the door. His boss had a pastry between his teeth while he tried to sort out some papers without getting sugar or grease on them. 

John tried hard not to laugh, but eventually it was Lestrade who dropped the papers, bit off a chunk of his pastry, chewed slowly and washed it down with a sip of tea before he chuckled. “Perfect timing, Watson,” he grinned. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I was going to ask you that question.”

“Oh, well, you could pass me one of those napkins,” he pointed at a stack of napkins next to a box of pastries. “Meant to share these, but then I forgot to eat lunch.”

John handed him a couple of napkins and waited until Lestrade had wiped his fingers and his mouth. “Right. Erm. I was just wondering if there was anything else before we head home.”

“Your honest opinion.”

“What I said during the briefing.”

“Why did you come then?”

“Sherlock just took the track on the simulator with current conditions. He made it through, barely. Won the race, too. I had him start from pole, though.”

“He’s unpredictable.”

“Good or bad?”

Lestrade sat down, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Both? Listen, John, this is an extraordinary situation. Nothing is planned, nothing long term in any case. We just do this weekend, then we do the counting. Decisions will have to be made, but for now, we see and learn. Had you asked me at the beginning of the season if I’d ever let him drive, I would have laughed at the suggestion. Now, not so much. But then again, he’s different now than he was then, and it’s difficult to say whether it’s long or short term. You’ve definitely been a good influence on him, but I need him to do it by himself, you understand? I need him to commit to it without you playing a role in that decision.” He looked at John with something like regret. “Same goes for you.”

“Your offer still stands?”

“To take him on instead of Kevin?”

John nodded. "He's mentioned something earlier. I didn't know he wanted the seat."

For some reason, Lestrade did not look surprised. “Yes. But he has to work for it. I need him to be committed.”

“Even if I might not be?”

Lestrade looked at him long and hard. “I don’t gather he will, without you.”

“I don’t think I can, without him.” John admitted.

“Let’s wait and see?”

“I’m afraid he’ll not listen to us.”

“That might be a problem.”

“Or it might get him a second win.”

“Which would still be a problem.”

“So you’re saying that he can’t go rogue, no matter what.”

“I am saying that if you or I tell him to do something, he is expected to do it, or he needs to propose a different strategy right away if it differs from our initial strategy and we need to approve before he goes through with it.”

“So that’s what you want me to do? Make that clear to him?”

“If you manage, chances are that he’ll be on the team. Long term, I mean.”

“You’re the boss,” John nodded. He knew that Lestrade was right. If Sherlock decided to do his own thing, he would never be accepted by the team.

“It’s not on you, you hear, John? It’s his decision, and he knows that it is.”

John nodded. He knew he would blame himself if Sherlock acted out. He was too involved, emotionally and mentally, not to, but he understood his boss perfectly. Lestrade had done more for him and for Sherlock than any other racing team would have ever been willing to do for any of their drivers or mechanics. He knew that Lestrade did it because he liked him and he apparently liked Sherlock a great deal, too, more so than his strange relationship with Mycroft Holmes would justify. He had vouched for both of them and it had turned out to be good for the team, but the new race could turn it all around again. John realised that this GP would be much more important than Silverstone had been. 

He also knew that he needed to make love to Sherlock before talking to him about his responsibilities.


	73. Chapter Seventy-Three

Sherlock had showered and was packing up when John returned. He had called Mike to see when he’d leave the HQ and decided not to wait and order a car instead. He had texted Jenson to let him know they’d be on their way soon and still waited for him to get back to him when he returned to the office. In the end, John preferred to be alone with Sherlock, knowing they would have precious little alone time once they got to Germany. 

John walked up to Sherlock and ran his hand through his wet hair, grinning when water dropped down into Sherlock’s collar, making him squirm. “Ready?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yep.”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“Not now.”

“You went to see Lestrade and voiced your concerns?”

John frowned at him. “How do you do that?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, ready to shower John in an elaborate explanation but then he simply exhaled again. “I guessed?”

“Liar,” John said fondly. “But yes. I did. I asked for his advice.”

“He agrees with you.”

“About you not burning the car while you’re in it? Yes.”

“Thought so.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this now.”

“What could he have possibly said that would make you not want to tell me?”

“He asked that you stick to the rules.”

“Obviously. I would be stupid not to.”

“His rules, also.”

“Those rules being?”

“You do what he tells you to do.”

“But what if he doesn’t understand?” Sherlock managed to look as if Lestrade had already asked something impossible of him. 

John had to laugh. “See, you doing … that … is the reason why I did not want to address it now.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing, with your face.”

“What thing? What about my face. This is just my face.”

Shaking his head, John nudged him towards the door. “Just go. We’ll talk later.”

“We have more than an hour to talk, since neither of us is driving.”

“I don’t want to talk now, alright?”

“Am I mistaken or are you proposing indecent behaviour in the back of a car?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” John grinned and locked the office. 

They were picked up by a driver John had been taken home by before. They chatted quietly in front of the car before getting in, while Sherlock watched John intently through the window from the back seat. Finally, John sat down next to him and smiled, holding out his hand. Sherlock gave him a long hard look before he did the same to the driver – James, as he introduced himself to Sherlock – and finally took John’s hand, intertwining their fingers and gently stroking John’s thumb with his own. 

John leaned back and closed his eyes, forcing himself to be calm. Aki had made it clear that stress wouldn’t help John recover, and while it was almost impossible when he was nervous, he knew that he could force himself to calm down under relatively normal circumstances. Now he could focus on Sherlock’s warm hand, his gentle touch and the certainty that he was with him in this and that they were on their way home – something John hadn’t really felt in years before meeting Sherlock. 

“Not quite what I expected,” Sherlock commented after a few minutes of silence. 

John turned his head towards him, but kept his eyes closed. “Hmm?”

“This?” Sherlock squeezed his hand and John had to giggle, opening one eye to look at Sherlock. 

“Disappointed?”

“Possibly?”

“I’ll make it up to you later,” John said under his breath, looking at him properly now, endeared with the way Sherlock’s curls were slowly drying and returning to their wild state. 

Sherlock made a soft noise and John bit his lip, resisting the urge to move closer and press a kiss to his lips. 

Instead, John closed his eyes again and tried to breathe evenly, banning all notions of the race and of Sherlock’s reckless driving from his thoughts. 

“James,” Sherlock’s voice suddenly broke through the silence in the car. “If I asked you for a favour, would you grant me one?”

Their driver studied Sherlock through the rear-view mirror before he nodded. “Depends.”

“See, me and John here, we are, erm, well …”

John sighed and opened his eyes again, all thoughts of calm dissipated. “We’re together. James knows that. I told him.”

James smirked and half turned his head. “It’s all good.”

“Sherlock, what were you going to ask?” John gently squeezed his hand.

“Just,” he looked slightly uncomfortable. “If he could keep this to himself.”

“Depends on what _this_ is,” James gave him a stern look. 

Sherlock seemed unsure of how to respond, so after a few moments of silence, he unbuckled John’s seatbelt and gently pulled on John’s shirt until he understood what Sherlock wanted and lay down, resting his head in Sherlock’s lap. “ _This_ ,” he clarified. “He needs to rest.”

“Well, not what I expected, but there you go,” James chuckled and returned his full attention to the road. 

John smiled and made himself comfortable. When Sherlock started brushing his fingers through his hair, gently touching his ear and moving down to his chin, resting on the love-bite which was still quite visible, before returning to his hair, John found that breathing became easier and his whole body grew heavy. He was asleep after a handful of minutes. 

John woke up when Sherlock squeezed his arm. “We’re home, John.”

He yawned heartily and rubbed his eyes before sitting up. He was slightly sore from the position he had been in, but he felt refreshed, even though he had not realised how nervous he had been all day. 

“Sorry, I keep falling asleep on you.”

Sherlock sighed wistfully. “Old age gets to us all.”

John laughed and playfully slapped his arm. Then he looked down at Sherlock’s crotch and smirked. 

“Thanks, James.” He opened the door and waited until Sherlock had joined him at the trunk. Pulling out their bags, Sherlock commented on John’s grin with a dismissive expression. 

Waving good bye to their driver, John entered the house after Sherlock, who stalked upstairs without a word. 

Once inside the flat, John closed the door behind himself and watched Sherlock carefully place his bag on the coffee table. “Do you want me to help you with that?” he offered. 

“I didn’t mean to, but you moved sometimes and … your presence.”

“Why are you apologising?”

“I’m not,” Sherlock frowned. “I’m just saying.”

“I’m flattered, I think,” John set down his own bag. 

“You were exhausted and I didn’t mean to …”

“Oh, I didn’t notice until you woke me up. If I had, you’d have had a hard time.”

Sherlock huffed. “Well, I did.”

“Harder,” John grinned.

“You should do your routine first,” Sherlock registered but chose to ignore John’s pun. 

John knew he was right. They should also pack before sex, but seeing that Sherlock was still hard made it incredibly difficult for John to prioritise. “Are you saying you are not letting me touch you before I have done it?”

“That is exactly what I am saying,” Sherlock nodded, happy to have been offered a way out. John could tell from the way his hands were pressed against his thighs that he wanted nothing more than for John to ignore reason and to touch him anyway. 

“Right. So you go pack and I do the first set and … well, pack afterwards.”

Sherlock nodded and positively fled to the bedroom. 

John blew out his breath and fished Aki’s routines out of his bag. Then he took off his shoes, jeans and shirt and started warming up.

The exercises involved more holding and lifting than stretching as they had before and John found himself panting after fifteen minutes, sweat dripping from his nose as he tried to hold his body weight for another half minute on a single arm and leg.

“Are you doing yoga?” Sherlock asked from the kitchen when John breathed through the pain of holding a side plank with his left arm. 

Sherlock walked up behind him and crouched down, pressed one hand against John’s hip and corrected his arm. Suddenly John found it much easier to hold the position. 

“You need a mirror for this. You can’t see yourself.”

“Not the worst thing,” John chuckled and sat down on the floor, praying that he hadn’t accidentally missed a page of further instructions. 

Sherlock ignored him. “He’s making you build up your core strength. You should do the exercises in the morning and a lighter repetition in the evening.”

John looked at Sherlock, unimpressed. “Twice a day?”

“You stretched, but stretching only helped to get your shoulder used to movement again. Now you need muscle to support your injured tendons. Half of what you just did is yoga.” He picked up the sheets and nodded. “But you need a mirror so you can correct your positions.”

“Why do you know so much about my body?”

Sherlock smiled. “Not yours. Bodies, yes. Part of the job.”

“I don’t follow.”

“When you were driving, you worked out.”

John nodded. “Gravity can be an asshole.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You need to protect your body. If you hadn’t been fit when the accident happened, you would have died.”

"Right, thanks. But I know what these exercises do.”

“But you did not think about it. He’s trying to get you back into shape,” Sherlock sounded concerned, but John couldn’t quite say why. 

“That’s what I want. No more pain.”

“Driving shape,” Sherlock added, biting the inside of his cheek. “At least that’s what I deduce from the exercises he’s assigned you. If he just wanted you to be pain free, he could have given you different exercises.”

John wiped his brow. “Is this a conspiracy?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you seem to know so much.”

“I know things, and you know that. But I have nothing to do with his,” he held up the sheets. “In fact, if I had had a say in this there would be other muscle groups I would have asked him to target.”

John frowned. “What?”

Sherlock grinned. “Then again, I think you’ll be exercising those on a regular basis anyway.”

John chuckled, but grew serious again, taking the sheets of paper from Sherlock. “Do you really think that it’s Aki’s intention to get to me drive again? I mean, why would he even consider it? Do you think Lestrade made him do it? Why would Lestrade want me to drive again, though?”

Sherlock made an annoyed sound and let himself fall backwards onto the floor. “John, please. Please have a shower and then pack because I need you. I need to touch you. I haven’t stopped thinking about touching you since the briefing and if you continue to delay my touching you I don’t think I will …”

“Since the briefing?” John interrupted him, plopping down on the ground next to Sherlock, who looked at him with the mix of exasperation and fascination. “Does this mean you drove the entire race while thinking about touching me?”

“Yes.”

“And you still drove like that?”

“John, please.”

“Please what?”

“Do what you have to do.”

“I take it you are not referring to me putting my mouth on your cock?”

Sherlock’s hand flew to cover his crotch. “Just go, for Christ’s sake.”

John laughed and rolled onto his side, letting his hand hover an inch above Sherlock’s hand. “I really want to.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed. “Go.”

“What if I don’t?”

“John Watson. You will not touch me before you have packed for Germany.”

“Fine, I’ll pack,” John sat up, staring at his own erection which happily tented his underwear. When he looked at Sherlock he found him staring at it. 

“Please go?” Sherlock asked, sounding close to tears of frustration.

With a grunt, John rose to his feet, irrationally sad to leave Sherlock lying on the floor like this without so much as a kiss, and went into the bedroom. He would move all of his things from his flat to Sherlock's after the GP, not knowing yet whether Sherlock would still drive for the team in Budapest. But whatever might happen, they would have nine days in London between races and John wanted to spend every single night in Sherlock’s arms. 

He packed his bag while thinking about Sherlock on the living room floor. Wondering if it was frustrating or actually relaxing for Sherlock to be silly like that, he took a thorough shower and brushed his teeth, despite not having eaten dinner yet but unsure whether they would get out of bed again once they were in it. 

When he came out of the bathroom with only a towel around his hips he found Sherlock in the kitchen where the table was set and two plates filled with fry up sat next to two steaming mugs of tea. 

“Mrs Hudson wanted to do us a favour,” Sherlock explained apologetically. “I tried to tell her that it was unnecessary, but …”

“That’s very kind of her,” John swallowed down his disappointment and dropped down on the chair opposite to Sherlock's. 

“Good thing you listened to me, too,” Sherlock nodded, staring at the food in front of them. “If you hadn’t left to pack, she would have walked right in on us.” 

For some reason John didn’t think she would have minded much, but he kept that thought to himself. “I’m not really hungry,” he said instead. 

“Neither am I,” Sherlock nodded and started eating. 

John had hoped that Sherlock would encourage him to leave it, but if Sherlock ate, he had to eat, too. With a sigh he began eating but he did not regret it. Whatever it was that Mrs Hudson had thrown together for the fry up, it tasted delicious. He leaned back in his chair and chewed with his eyes closed. “Hmm,” he hummed, shovelling more food in his mouth and chewing enthusiastically until he felt Sherlock’s cold foot against his knee. 

John’s hand flew down and he grabbed him, pressing his thumb against the span of Sherlock’s foot, making him freeze in his seat. “You are not going to try to get me off with your foot under the table while we eat. Not with a cold foot anyway.”

Disappointed, Sherlock pulled his foot back and stubbornly stabbed his food a couple of times before he continued eating. He must have liked Mrs Hudson’s dinner after all, because he did finish it; or, John mused, he had realised that they would need to finish it before they could come to the final point of the evening programme. John grinned at his empty plate. 

“Who’s doing the washing up?” he finally asked and Sherlock growled and got up, taking both plates and dropping them unceremoniously in the sink. He turned on the water and scrubbed them clean within seconds. Then he dried his hands on a tea towel which he threw at John. 

With a small smile, John folded the tea towel like a napkin and put it next to his mug. Then he picked the mug up and took a long sip, all while keeping eye contact with Sherlock. 

“You,” Sherlock said breathlessly, “are a terrible, terrible man.”

“Oh, just because for once you are the desperate one?”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. “As if you are not!” He sounded almost angry and John felt a spark of white heat race down his spine and settle in the pit of his stomach. 

John gripped the edge of the table and pulled himself up, his towel having slipped from his hips during their dinner, his pretended stoicism falling away when his erection caught on the table top and bounced a little when he pulled back further to make room for it. 

Sherlock’s expression went from stony to delighted so fast that John almost had to sit down again, feeling overwhelmed with what Sherlock’s smile did to him. “Bedroom,” he murmured and stepped around the table. Sherlock reached out and took his hand and pulled him away as if to make sure that John wouldn’t change his mind.

When they were in the bedroom, he closed the door behind him, leaning against it, watching John with wide eyes. 

John sat down on the bed and took hold of his cock, hissing at the relief his own hand offered. As a consequence, Sherlock positively catapulted himself from the door onto the bed, pressing one hand against John’s chest and pushing him down on the mattress while he settled on John’s stomach, slowly moving back until their cocks were aligned. John closed his eyes, wanting desperately to hold on to the incredible feeling of being so turned on, but yearning for release. 

Sherlock started moving his hips, rutting against him, but suddenly he stopped and collapsed on John, his breath tiny desperate moans. 

“Sherlock?” John felt Sherlock’s cock still pressed against his, trapped between their bodies, but Sherlock’s hips were entirely still. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock inhaled loudly and lifted his head, pushing himself up far enough to be able to look at John. “It’s too much. I’ve been waiting so long and now it’s just … I can’t.”

John stared at him and then rolled his hips, watching as Sherlock’s eyes screwed closed and his mouth fell open in a silent scream. 

He did it again and Sherlock jerked, hard, and then John felt his teeth against his collar bone. He risked it and earned a flash of pain for it when Sherlock bit down hard.

John knew that no matter how easy it would be to come like this, he needed to make sure that Sherlock was okay. So he stopped moving and instead pushed at him until he rolled off him. 

Eyes wide open now, breath ragged and uneven, Sherlock lay on the bed, legs dangling off it, his twitching erection hovering below his navel, freely leaking precome.

John watched him, memorising this moment and being so very close to just jerking off onto Sherlock’s stomach. Instead, he made him move properly onto the bed, shoving a pillow under his head, kissing him slowly and deeply. 

Sherlock moaned against his lips and very soon his arms reached out for him, pulling him closer, wandering down to his arse and kneading, making John lose track of the kiss and moan helplessly against his chin. Sherlock’s right hand stroked up and down the length of John’s flank before sneaking around to his front, and, wrapping his fingers around him, Sherlock brought John to his desperately needed orgasm. 

John jerked into his hand, trying to prolong the feeling of bliss, his mouth half-heartedly trying to find Sherlock’s lips again. 

They must have spent minutes like this, John slowly pushing in and out of Sherlock’s curled, come-covered fingers, slowly growing soft and oversensitive, breathlessly and messily kissing him while Sherlock’s hand still gently squeezed John’s arse. 

“Fuck,” John finally said, rolling onto his back and away from Sherlock’s fingers. He shuddered with a late aftershock and wiped at his stomach and flaccid cock. “That was incredible.”

Sherlock’s face was flushed and his eyes were trained on John’s face. “That was astonishing,” he said after a moment, his eyes dropping down to his glistening hand. 

John chuckled and tugged a few tissues from a box on the night stand and carefully wiped Sherlock’s fingers clean. Then he wiped his cock again and threw them off the bed. 

“Now, how are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s all too much.”

John nodded. “Touch yourself then?”

“What?” Sherlock seemed both shocked and intrigued.

“You know best how not to hurt yourself.”

“But …”

“Just try? Because I can’t make love to you if you’re in pain,” John murmured, flicking the nail of his index finger against Sherlock’s left nipple. 

Sherlock yelped and swatted at John’s hand, but then his eyes widened. He flopped down flat on his back.

“Your mouth, please?” he indicated his nipples with his hands as if offering John snacks and John had to laugh, but he settled down, his own body at right angles with Sherlock’s, and began to happily suck on Sherlock’s nipples in turn. Sherlock closed his eyes and buried one hand in his hair and taking his erection in the other hand. 

He grunted and jerked, but John kept doing what he had been asked to do, hoping to distract Sherlock enough from his cock to get him to relax just enough to come. After a few minutes, Sherlock gave up, groaning loudly in frustration.

“Alright, let’s try something else?” John suggested and Sherlock nodded. His entire chest was now pink, both because of John’s attention and his overwhelming arousal. 

“On your knees,” John dictated and fished the lube out of Sherlock’s drawer while Sherlock positioned himself with his arse in the air. 

When John poured a copious amount of lube onto Sherlock’s arse without any warning, Sherlock made an undignified noise and then buried his face in the pillow. John just smiled and started spreading the lube downwards, including his testicles and cock. Sherlock jerked when John stroked him quickly, but he did not complain. Then he began massaging his buttocks, pressing both thumbs against the flesh around his anus before letting his left thumb push deeper. He felt the muscles around his thumb contract almost painfully and John swiped up more lube from his skin and made sure he was thoroughly wet when he pushed in again. 

Sherlock moaned into his pillow, both hands fisting at the sheets. When John switched his thumb with his index finger, Sherlock’s right hand flew to his cock and began pumping furiously. John tried to imitate the rhythm, but Sherlock’s movement was too erratic for him to manage, so he established his own rhythm, pushing in and curling his finger before pulling out again. 

“More,” Sherlock finally gasped and could feel from the tension in his hips that Sherlock was indeed very close now. Instead of simply pressing in a second finger, John added more lube, earning a curse from Sherlock when he had recovered from the repeated shock of cold against his oversensitive skin. Then John carefully screwed two fingers in, probing, pulling out after he had gone in half way before pushing harder. 

Sherlock’s body went rigid and then he jerked hard, once, twice, splashing come across his hand and the sheets. John curled his fingers, earning another curse, this time uttered with much more affection, before Sherlock dropped down on his side, still stroking himself, as if he wanted to make sure that he spent every last drop of come he had held back until then. 

John watched him calm down and shake through aftershocks and he watched him press his eyes closed with a moan when John pulled his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets. “Well,” he finally said when Sherlock’s lips widened in a disbelieving smile. “So much for foreplay.”


	74. Chapter Seventy-Four

“That was new,” Sherlock finally said, staring up at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, fingertips occasionally drumming a silent rhythm against his own skin. 

“Are you okay?”

“Hmm, yes,” he smiled and looked at John. “Quite alright.”

“Good,” John nodded.

“Are you?” Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and crawled closer to John, pushing his upper body up with his arms while his hips remained on the mattress. John was momentarily distracted by the curve of Sherlock’s back and his arse. 

“Erm, what? Yes, yes I’m alright. Fine. God,” he finally stopped pretending to be thinking of himself in that moment and reached out his hand, slowly stroking it across Sherlock’s shoulder and back, down to his arse. “How are you so bloody gorgeous?”

Sherlock dropped down on the mattress, hiding his face. 

“Sorry,” John whispered and leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s back. 

“No,” Sherlock turned his head so he could speak, “it’s fine.”

John smiled and blew a raspberry against Sherlock’s buttock. Sherlock flinched but seemingly couldn’t decide whether he wanted to move away or closer to John, so he stayed where he was. 

John made the decision for him and lay down next to him, tugging until Sherlock was pressed against him and he could wrap a leg around his legs to hold him close. 

“You said you could kiss me again for the first time,” Sherlock reminded him and John wondered how much time he had spent thinking about that kiss. 

“I think I can substitute your memory with a new one, but not now. We can’t be naked for that.”

“Hmm.”

“We can kiss, though?” John suggested, laughing when Sherlock frowned in apparent deep concentration. Then his face lit up in a smile again and he nodded, pressing his lips against John’s. 

Chuckling, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock, pressing against the small of his back while Sherlock’s arm settled around his shoulders. 

They kissed for a small eternity and it was brilliant because there was no overwhelming need that drove them together, no desperation and no uncontrollable arousal. They simply kissed and were gentle with each other and after a long time Sherlock stopped kissing John and simply held him in his arms. 

“I’ve never done that, either,” he admitted.

“When I met you I never thought you would be able to just be. You were so quick, so eager to get things over with and to move on.”

Sherlock nodded and ran his fingers softly across John’s shoulders. “I thought I’d get you to follow me but it’s quite the opposite. I’ve never, in my entire life, spent so much time not moving.”

“Is that acceptable?”

“As long as you are with me, yes.” 

John smiled and gently kissed him. “How do you know what I think about?”

Sherlock smiled. “You’re so easy to read.”

John huffed and nudged Sherlock’s chest with his forehead. “I’m not always fantasising about you, you know?”

“Oh, I know. You get that half smile when you do,” Sherlock chuckled at John’s disbelieving expression. “It’s what you do. And your hand gives you away as well.”

“My hand?”

Sherlock nodded and rested his own hand against John’s sternum. “It seems to have made an impression on you. You also do it to calm yourself down. But you don’t smile then, obviously.”

“But you did not even look at me when you were driving and you still felt distracted.”

“You stopped moving and did not pay attention properly.”

“I could have been thinking about, I don’t know, food or what I needed to pack for Germany or that I need to take the car to the garage tomorrow before we leave for the airport.”

“You were too focused on the test to let your thoughts drift away. You were definitely thinking of Hockenheim.”

“But you don’t exactly know what I was thinking about.”

“I’m not a psychic, John. I can only read the signs your body offers me.”

“Oh, my body is offering you things?”

“Signs, yes. But,” Sherlock smirked and ran his hand down to grab John’s arse, “currently you are also giving me much more.”

John gasped and pressed himself closer to Sherlock. “What am I thinking now?”

Sherlock looked closely at his face. “You’re not in pain,” Sherlock decided. “And you’re wondering how long it will take both of us to try again.”

“Try what again?”

“Sex?” Sherlock murmured sheepishly, knowing what John was doing but still going along with it. 

“What kind of sex?”

“Great sex,” he finally said and grinned, sealing John’s lips with his own to keep him from teasing him further. 

“What else?” John finally asked, twirling one of Sherlock’s curls around his finger. 

“That you like where you are.”

“True,” John smiled and kissed him again gently. “What else.”

“That you are thirsty but you do not want to get up at the moment.”

John’s eyebrow rose when he thought of what Sherlock had said. “True. What else?”

Sherlock studied him calmly. “You like touching me.”

“That’s obvious, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s what you’re thinking.”

John chuckled. “Yes. What else?”

Sherlock swallowed and blushed and John watched it happening with increasing excitement. “What?”

“You like it when I touch you.”

“Obviously,” John breathed.

“Your arse, specifically. And your stomach. And the inside of your thighs and arms and your neck.”

John shuddered, trying to attach even more skin to Sherlock. “Guilty as charged.”

“You’re ready,” Sherlock finally said and let his hand wander down between their bodies, taking hold of his returned erection. 

“Are you?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Just a moment,” he climbed off the bed and walked out of the room, making John wonder what he was up to. When he returned with a glass of water, John needed a moment before he could drink. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You might think it a sentimental gesture, but I just really want to be sure that we don’t have to take a break because you suddenly realise that you are incredibly thirsty.”

John laughed and put the glass away. “Instead, I will need to use the bathroom soon.”

“Not by my estimations,” Sherlock shrugged and John pushed him down onto the mattress, coming to sit on him, pinning him down. “And in the end it turns out that you really do care about me,” he smiled and leaned down to kiss him deeply. 

Sherlock opened his mouth, welcoming John’s lips and tongue, moaning when John carefully bit his lower lip and pulled, only to seek out his tongue with his own, teasing him, pulling away again when Sherlock pushed upwards, half an inch from his lips. They were close enough to feel the heat between them, but John made it impossible for Sherlock to take control of the kiss. Eventually, Sherlock had enough and he pushed himself up on his elbows, regaining some leverage, but John still had plenty of room to move away and move down again when Sherlock stopped trying. Finally, John pressed his hands against Sherlock’s chest and pushed him back down on his back while he sat up again, moving his hips a bit to relieve some of the tension that had been building between them. 

“I do care,” Sherlock finally admitted, running his hand from John’s face down his chest and stomach to take hold of his cock. 

John responded with a lopsided smile. “Me, too. Now, how do you want me?”

Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes settling on John’s erection in his hand. “I love looking at you, but what you did earlier. Not seeing you properly. It was … it had a certain … I quite liked that.”

John nodded. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can try something else.”

Sherlock ruffled his hair. “I’m not sure that it’s discomfort you should be worried about.”

John moved off of him, keeping eye contact. “Oh, I’m not worried. I just don’t plan on letting you come so easily.”

“I don’t think it’s entirely in your hand,” Sherlock said sheepishly and John laughed. 

“Yeah, might be in your hand as well. Or hands free.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face in pretended annoyance before he sat up. “I want to put on your condom.”

John grinned and spread his arms. “Go right ahead.”

“It’s just. I didn’t get much practice and I want to be good at it.”

“Ahh, Sherlock Holmes, winner of races and John Watson’s heart and world champion of putting condoms on his cock.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock chided him gently and John chuckled. 

“Your idiot.”

Sherlock was clearly running out of things to say so he pulled open the drawer of the night stand and pulled out a condom. Then he sat up, cross-legged, and with a look of utter concentration on his face, he pulled it out of the sachet and then leaned over to roll it on John. 

John twitched when he touched him and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth rose in an unconscious smile. He smoothed the condom down John’s length and then stroked him a few times for good measure. “Is that alright?” 

John nodded, biting his lip. “Can I do you?”

“You’ve already started and I quite enjoyed that. So yes, please,” Sherlock said earnestly and John marvelled at the fact that he took this so seriously and thereby made John appreciate the whole experience much more than he ever had with anyone else. Well, that, and the fact that every time he looked at Sherlock, his heart skipped a beat. 

“I love you,” John said quietly, “so much.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his eyes burning and the dimple in his cheek deepening when he pressed his lips together is a small happy smile. “I love you, too, John,” he said, a blush gracing his cheeks and ears. 

“On your knees then,” John said happily, fishing for the lube on the night stand. When Sherlock went down on all fours, John felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through him. Sherlock trusted him enough to offer himself so freely after being hurt so badly. 

He swallowed down sudden tears and went to work. Sherlock was very quiet when he began to open him up. He took his time, occasionally reaching around Sherlock’s body to stroke him and to kiss his back before he pushed his index finger in. 

Sherlock made a small noise and cleared his throat immediately after, as if he felt embarrassed for it. 

“I want to hear you.” He pulled out and pushed in again, using a little more force, earning a grunt from Sherlock. 

When he pushed two fingers in, Sherlock froze for a moment before he began breathing deeply, forcing himself to relax. 

“Everything okay?”

Sherlock nodded but he didn’t say anything. So John made sure that he was comfortable with two fingers before he added more lube and carefully pushed in three. Sherlock froze again, his breathing ragged. “I can stop, just say a word,” John offered, pulling this fingers out again. 

“No, please keep going.” Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth. 

“Are you in pain? Is it uncomfortable?”

“No, yes, I mean, it’s okay. It’s rather the thought that it’s you…” he trailed off and John pressed a sloppy kiss to his buttock. 

“Do you want me to talk you through it?”

Sherlock shuddered and then arched his back. It was the most obvious nonverbal invitation John had ever received. 

“Are you alright with two fingers? I think you are. And now I can do this.” John pushed in deeply and then bent his fingers and carefully pulled back. Sherlock whined and quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

“Don’t do that,” John complained. “I want to hear everything. You have no idea what it does to me. To hear you like that.” 

For good measure, he repeated the movement, pressing down a little harder now. 

“John!” Sherlock sounded out of breath. “You need to stop doing that. I don’t want to come yet!”

“Oh, you think that’ll make you come?” John murmured and did it again. Sherlock gasped and took hold of his own cock, squeezing until John pushed his hand away. 

“It doesn’t count if you help,” he grinned and kissed the small of Sherlock’s back before moving further down and biting gently at his buttock. 

“Then, please, go on,” Sherlock resigned himself to John’s preparation, but he became increasingly vocal about it. 

When John felt that he was ready, he pushed Sherlock’s knees apart and positioned himself between his legs. He poured a decent amount of lube onto his cock, being glad of the cold shock he received to calm him somewhat, and, once the lube had become warmer, he spread some against Sherlock, and, by moving down, slid along his cock, which Sherlock thanked him for with a small desperate noise. 

“Are you ready?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him for a moment before he nodded. “I was wrong. I just realised that I hate not seeing you, but yes. I am.”

John closed his eyes and pushed in. He had been prepared for the pressure and the memory of their first time was still fresh on his mind, but he was not ready for the sudden onslaught of feelings when Sherlock, impatient as always, pushed back and John found himself entirely engulfed by heat. Instead of moving, which Sherlock undoubtedly expected of him, he leaned forward and embraced him, kissing his shoulders and neck and finding that he couldn’t stop whispering endearments. 

“Do you, do you want to stop?” Sherlock finally asked timidly and John shook his head while his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s back.

“I’m sorry. It’s just everything, and you. I have you. God,” he didn’t trust his voice beyond that.

Sherlock pushed himself up and John with him, until John was sitting on his heels and Sherlock in his lap. He twisted his torso until he could look at John, who sheepishly wiped at his face and then followed the invitation and kissed him messily. After a while Sherlock took John’s hand and carefully pulled it down into his lap. “Please,” he murmured and John complied. 

He stroked him slowly, gliding easily up and down, occasionally stopping to rub his thumb across the head, making Sherlock squirm in his lap. John watched his profile, the way his lips opened to give room to the moans that escaped him, the way his eyes widened and then squeezed closed when he broke his rhythm. Minutes passed this way and John was simply too head over heels in love to do anything else but watch and stroke him and somehow try not to drown in the heat around him. 

Eventually Sherlock grew restless and John felt him grow even harder, so he stopped stroking and simply held him. “Can you move?” he asked, running his right hand down Sherlock’s side and coming to rest against his hip. 

Sherlock grunted when he first pushed himself up, effectively letting John slip free, before he sank down again, making a surprised noise only to repeat the motion a little faster.

“God, yes,” John whispered and let go of his cock, taking hold of Sherlock’s hips with both hands to hold on to and to encourage him to go faster.

Sherlock happily obliged. It took him a while to find the right angle for himself, but when he did, he let go completely. John couldn’t help himself, he squeezed Sherlock’s thighs, feeling the muscles move underneath his palms. Then he ran his hands across his stomach, smiling when Sherlock’s cock bounced against his fingers. Sherlock fell out of his rhythm when he squeezed his chest and he grunted and stuttered to a halt when John pinched his nipples, just to see how Sherlock would react. Both delighted and disappointed by the impact of his move, he flattened his palms across his nipples and simply held on. 

Sweat shone on Sherlock’s skin and John loved the exertion Sherlock was willing to put himself through to feel John slide in and out. Eventually, Sherlock moved too fast for John’s liking, suggesting that he reached his point of no return. 

John buried one hand in Sherlock’s curls and pulled, exposing his neck to the whole wide world so he could whisper in his ear. “Don’t come yet. Please don’t.”

Sherlock smirked, obviously aware that the decision lay in his hands. “Oh, what are you going to do to keep me from coming?”

John chuckled and moaned at the same time. “Stop fucking you would be a very effective move.”

“Lack thereof, rather,” Sherlock let himself fall forward and onto his hands, forcing John to let go of his hair if he didn’t want to hurt him. Instead, John followed him, pushing hard against the inside of Sherlock’s thighs and forcing his legs father apart. Then he placed both hands on the small of his back and put his entire weight on it.

Sherlock flattened against the mattress, grunting when his cock became trapped between his body and the sheets. “Don’t touch yourself,” John ordered and Sherlock stiffened. For a moment John believed that he had achieved the opposite effect of what he had wanted and made Sherlock come, but soon he found that Sherlock was imply waiting for further orders. 

Instead of telling Sherlock what to do, John moved down further and pulled Sherlock’s hips up so he could comfortably push into him without having to lean over and shift his weight onto his arms. 

It didn’t take long until Sherlock’s moans became higher pitched and drawn out and John sped up. He made sure to pull out almost all the way before driving back in and Sherlock arched up every time he did. 

“I need to see your face when you come,” John finally admitted, more to himself than to Sherlock, but absolutely sure that he could not come before he was looking into Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock shuddered and stilled underneath him, moaning when John pulled out, and immediately turned to lie of his back. 

When John pushed back into him, Sherlock took John’s face between his hands and pulled him down into a kiss. John felt his muscles ache and he knew that Sherlock would probably feel him and their love-making echoing in his muscles for a while.

“For the record,” Sherlock said, forcing himself to sound as normal as possible.

“You mean for the log book?” John teased and earned a slap on his arse for his trouble. 

“I do enjoy this, a lot.”

John chuckled and kissed him fiercely, feeling Sherlock buck up underneath him. 

“Good,” he eventually said. “I’m very glad you do. I feel the same.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, thanks. Good talk.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before he started giggling helplessly and John couldn’t help but join him.

He moved a little faster, taking hold of Sherlock’s hips again. Sherlock’s mirth quickly turned into raspy breaths and whimpers. At first he wrapped his legs around John’s hips, fighting with him for dominance, but John freed himself and pressed Sherlock’s knees up against his chest, hooking Sherlock’s calves over his shoulders and pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the bed above his head. 

Wide eyed, Sherlock stared up at John who was trying very hard not to come while Sherlock fought against his hands. John’s breath was ragged and turned into grunts when Sherlock’s mouth fell open and his eyes screwed shut. They were both sweating, keeping up the struggle for dominance, although John knew that Sherlock could probably flip him over in a second if he really tried. 

“Please, John, please!” Sherlock finally begged. “Please touch me!”

John was too far gone by that point to fight against Sherlock. He pushed his legs from his shoulders, allowing room for Sherlock’s hand to fly to his cock and stroke himself furiously. “You didn’t say that you would touch yourself,” he complained between grunts, but then he got lost in the blissful smile that spread across Sherlock’s face and a moment later he felt Sherlock’s body tighten around him, and, finally unable to hold back any longer, John came, too. 

He pushed in as deeply as he could and collapsed on Sherlock, who still managed to stroke himself through his orgasm, moaning loudly. 

They were both out of breath, and suddenly weak with exertion and relief. John pulled out carefully and rolled on his back to be able to pull off the condom. Sherlock took it from him, studied it with interest for a few seconds before he wrapped it in a tissue and dropped it on the night stand. He quickly wiped at his stomach and chest and then did the same to John’s before he took John’s cock gently in his hand and licked at his head. John squirmed and half-heartedly pushed at his shoulder, but Sherlock moved on, kissing his way upwards along John’s stomach and then his chest, spending a good five minutes making love to John’s nipples with his mouth after he realised that he could make John shudder and gasp doing it and finally kissed his way up towards John’s lips. 

He was impossibly gentle, tickling John’s lips with feathery kisses and quiet breaths. John felt heat building in his stomach and he wondered if Sherlock knew what an effect he had on him. 

Finally Sherlock rested his cheek on John’s chest and John hugged him close, loving his weight on his body. It made him feel rooted to the moment. 

“That was … extraordinary,” Sherlock said after a long moment of quiet. “You are extraordinary.”

John smiled and played with Sherlock’s hair, something he would never tire of. 

“Thanks, Sherlock. I’m so glad you think so.”

“There’s one thing, though,” Sherlock, suddenly energised, lifted his head and looked at John with fire in his eyes. “You need to start driving again.”

John frowned, not quite understanding why Sherlock felt that way, especially in that context.

“I need you to drive again because I need to compete with you. If you are anything on the racetrack like you were just now, I would love nothing more than to race you.”

John felt himself blush, but Sherlock shook his head and kissed him. “I mean it. I always knew you had that fight in you, but you trying to hold me down just … I don’t think I have ever wanted you as much as I did just now.”

“You’ve only known me for a couple of weeks, though,” John reminded him. 

“Are you suggesting that I might want you even more in the future?” Sherlock seemed genuinely intrigued by that thought.

John stared at him for a moment, baffled at the way his mind worked. “No, well, I don’t know. What I mean is, always is a rather big word for a little more than two weeks.”

“It seems longer than that,” Sherlock noted, “but I knew from the first day on that you are not someone who just stands by. When he first met, you were ready to fight me for that car.”

“Well, I didn’t know you and I’m still slightly upset about what you did to that car.”

Sherlock chuckled. “See? You want to challenge me. And I want you to challenge me. And not just like you did now, though that was very, very good.”

“So you are saying that I should lose my fear of driving and get out on a racetrack and compete with you so you can get off?” John tried to keep it light hearted and somehow he did not feel upset at all. 

Sherlock bit his lip, thinking about it for a moment. Finally he nodded, grinning happily. 

John laughed and pulled him into a tight hug. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sherlock chuckled and settled down again. It didn’t take them long to grow sleepy and boneless, and eventually Sherlock moved off of John, awkwardly walked into the bathroom, and switched off the light when he returned. “Don’t forget to drink,” he murmured when he climbed back into bed.

John sighed, but listened to Sherlock and made him drink a few sips as well before he wrapped himself around him and closed his eyes, slowly drifting off. 

The last thing he felt before falling asleep was Sherlock moving John's hand from his stomach to his sternum and gently placing his own over it to hold him in place.


	75. Chapter Seventy-Five

John was only half awake when he remembered that he had already promised Sherlock to race him in Scotland. He had promised Sherlock that if he faced Sally, then he would try to overcome his fear as well. And now Sherlock had gone even further and faced Victor. He knew that it was only his sleep addled brain that made it seem almost exciting and not as terrifying as he would undoubtedly find it once he was properly awake. 

He also realised that Sherlock must have remembered when he had asked him again - he seemed to remember everything he had ever said to him. And yet, he had not used his promise against him, but simply stated his reasons for wanting him on a racetrack again – reasons which he found rather appealing. 

John turned around, finding the bed empty. With a disappointed sniff, he opened his eyes and looked around. His phone confirmed that it was still relatively early, so he guessed something must have woken him up. Judging from the cool sheets next to him, Sherlock had been up for a while and for a moment John pressed his face into Sherlock’s pillow and inhaled deeply. He would miss this bed. It was extraordinarily comfortable. 

Suddenly Sherlock's voice rose in the sitting room and John smiled, anxious to learn whether Sherlock felt as sore as he did and whether he was okay after last night's emotional love making. 

Groaning at his aching body, John climbed out of bed and made his way towards the door, which was half open. It was the tone of Sherlock’s voice that made him stop in his tracks. He sounded annoyed.

“You don’t understand. I don’t want your protection. I don’t need it.”

John was sure he was talking to Mycroft on the phone, so instead of walking out of the room, he simply stood in the door and listened, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock. 

“And there is nothing you can do to help.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice interrupted Sherlock and John froze, half terrified, half angry about the fact that Mycroft Holmes was in their flat while John was standing naked behind a door only a few feet away. “You know how you were and how you will be again if something happens.” 

For a moment John was distracted by how intensely protective he already felt of this place. There was no question that this was their flat, that he lived here now and that he was ready to fight for it. And yet, he stood entirely still, a hand braced against the door frame. 

“What do you mean, if something happens?” Sherlock sounded properly angry now. 

“Something always happens. You’ve seen his file. You’ve seen how many people he has been with. You know he’s prone to accidents, health issues and withdrawals from contracts. He’s not a constant man, Sherlock.”

“I can’t believe you came here to tell me that. You had it wrong the first time, and you have it wrong now." Sherlock started pacing, and then suddenly stopped in his tracks. "I love him. I really, truly love him, and I know that you are not familiar with the sensation, but he loves me. Me." He sounded incredulous and his voice had softened, making John's heart beat faster. "The way he looks at me. You don’t know what that feels like. You don’t understand.”

“I concede that I do not quite …”

“Exactly, you don’t quite. So stop trying to control it. You can’t.”

“It’s been not even been a month, Sherlock. You have been behaving in ridiculous ways. Your hormones are dictating your actions and you are putting yourself in danger.”

Sherlock made a distressed noise. “I want his file. Every last bit of information you have on him. Everything. Every word, every video, every photo. And then you will take him off your list.”

“I cannot do that, Sherlock.”

“I am asking you.” Sherlock implored. “Please do this for me.”

“You are making an enormous mistake.”

“No. I know I’m not.”

“What do you think will happen in a few months time? You allow yourself to be so weak. Don’t you see how easy it is to destroy you now.”

John was ready to find a blunt object and strike Mycroft Holmes across the head with it. If this was how Mycroft talked to his little brother, John could understand why Sherlock found it almost trivial to be mocked by his colleagues. 

“I’ve never been happier in my life, Mycroft. He said he wants flowers for each anniversary.”

“Good god, Sherlock. Listen to yourself. It’s easy to make promises. And it’s easier to break them.”

“It wasn’t a promise,” Sherlock sounded resigned, as if he had understood that he couldn’t convince Mycroft. “He didn’t promise anything.”

They were both silent for a while and John heard only his own blood rushing in his ears. He forced himself to breathe steadily. 

“It’s the things he doesn’t say that make me certain,” Sherlock finally said, sounding more confident again. “The way he touches me. He sleeps in my arms and he looks at me like I am someone worth looking at and he kisses me all the time. And he trusts me, and he cries,” Sherlock’s voice broke. “He cries when he makes love to me. Don’t you see, Mycroft. I’m really happy.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“I’m better, Mycroft. I talked to Victor and I survived. I did not want to die and I did not want to hurt him. It’s like it doesn’t really matter anymore because he’s with me. And I need him with me, but your surveillance makes him severely uncomfortable and I really don’t want him to be afraid.”

“How else could I make sure that he doesn’t hurt you?”

“You can’t!”

“Well, there you are.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Mycroft. That is not what I meant. You can’t make sure that he doesn’t hurt me. He already hurt me, Mycroft, despite your measures, and he felt terrible about it and he apologised, like normal people do, and it was fine. I was okay. I am okay. You can’t threaten him and you can’t buy him. But he will be upset and I can’t have that.”

“You are still making a mistake, Sherlock.”

“I have made too many mistakes in my life, but I know he isn’t one of them.”

“What about Victor, then?”

“What about him?”

“You were sure about him.”

“I was a child,” Sherlock shot back venomously. “And you didn’t help at all.”

“I made sure you had a friend.”

“Whom you encouraged to stay just that, I’m sure,” Sherlock barked out. 

While they had been relatively quiet when John had woken up, they were both speaking with raised voices now and John wondered whether Sherlock wanted him to overhear the conversation.

“There was a career to consider …”

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Get out of my house. And if you don’t hand over John’s file I will make your life hell.” If John had been in the room with them he would have kissed Sherlock then, hard, on the mouth. 

“You’re in no position to make threats,” Mycroft said calmly, but John could hear the underlying anger. “I pay for your lifestyle. I pay for your mistakes.”

“I don’t want your money. I want you to keep your meddling fingers out of my life.”

“You don’t know what you are saying.”

Sherlock huffed out a bitter laugh. “I took your money because it was convenient, not because I needed it.”

“You are where you are because of me.”

“Imagine how much happier I would have been if that wasn’t the case.”

“You wouldn’t have met him,” Mycroft was clearly grasping at straws now and John felt almost sorry for him. Of all the things Mycroft Holmes could have said to Sherlock, using emotional blackmail was the least helpful of options. 

“Oh, I like to think we would have met anyway,” Sherlock quoted John and he felt his heart in his throat. 

He heard a chair creak and slow steps towards the door. “Don’t come running for help, Sherlock.”

“I won’t, don’t worry and don't forget to send the files,” Sherlock shot back and closed the door to the hallway noisily. 

John wanted to go into the living room and hug Sherlock, but he stood still behind the door, waiting for Sherlock to come to him. 

His heart contracted painfully when he heard the door open and fall shut again a moment later. When he walked into the living room, he found it deserted. 

“Sherlock?” John called out, hoping that he was wrong, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

John felt nervous and anxious instead of excited as he had expected to feel on the day of their journey to Germany. He quickly stretched, but did not do a full cycle of his exercises, fearing that he was too sore for them, took a shower and then dressed, double checked that he had packed everything he needed before his eyes fell on Sherlock’s bag. With a sudden flash of happiness, he grabbed a stack of post-its and began writing little notes of encouragement which he carefully placed between layers of clothes in Sherlock’s bag. Then he placed the lube and condoms in his own bag before closing it again. 

Knowing that a car would come to pick them up to bring them to the airport soon, he guessed that Sherlock would be back within a few minutes - at least he hoped he would, but somehow he didn't think that Sherlock would have walked away now like he had after the qualifying. Sherlock had said what he had to say to his brother and John was sure he would have come to talk to him if he had needed him. He made himself tea and only realised where Sherlock might have gone when his eyes fell on one of Mrs Hudson’s tea pots which sat on the kitchen counter. 

John made his way downstairs, knocking on Mrs Hudson’s door, hoping she wouldn’t be too annoyed in case Sherlock wasn’t with her and he had woken her up.

She opened the door a few seconds later, wide awake, her smile giving John hope that things weren’t as bad as he imagined for them to be. “Is Sherlock here?”

“Ah, yes, he’s in the kitchen. Come in.”

Sherlock looked slightly nervous when John walked in, but John shook his head and simply leaned down to kiss him. “Morning,” he smiled.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Mrs Hudson pressed John down on a chair and immediately produced a plate with toast, a fried egg, beans and grilled tomatoes. “Sherlock ate all the bacon,” she apologised and John grinned. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, his face softening. 

“It’s just. You do eat when people prepare you food.” He began shovelling food into his mouth. “The car’s going to come pick us up soon. Do we need to bring anything else than what we have already packed?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot to Mrs Hudson who was busying herself with the dishes and John chuckled. “That’s taken care of,” he ensured him and Sherlock blushed and hid behind his tea mug. 

“You two take care of each other, you hear? No silly stuff.”

“And what in the world would that _silly stuff_ be?” Sherlock asked. 

“Ah, Sherlock. I sometimes forget that you are not a teenager anymore.” She petted his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he muttered sarcastically and John felt that despite Mycroft’s interruption, the day would be a good one. 

The car arrived just when he had finished eating and Sherlock shot up, pressed a kiss on Mrs Hudson’s cheek and left the kitchen without another word. John caught up with him on the stairs. 

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, last night?”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s carefully guarded expression gave way to a smirk. “I’m a bit sore.”

“It's not too bad, I hope?”

Sherlock held out his hand and then pulled John into their sitting room, closing the door behind him. “It’s perfect. It’s like your hands are still touching me.”

John felt white heat settle in his groin when Sherlock’s hands wandered down his own body, touching his hips and stomach, his thighs and the small of his back. 

John wanted these hands to do exactly the same to him, too. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“I’m just seeing if anything hurts.”

John chuckled and grabbed his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. The door bell shocked them both out of the kiss. “Fuck,” John murmured and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pressing it against the tightness in his trousers. Sherlock curled his fingers against him and squeezed. “Do you think we can ask the driver to wait for a bit?”

“The plane it not going to wait, though. Lestrade will have a fit if we miss it.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” John admitted and tried to push Sherlock away. However, Sherlock remained where he was, his fingers still against John’s erection. 

“Oh you bastard,” John chuckled and arched against him. “You go and tell him, then.” The bell rang again and John pushed harder at him. “We have to go,” John felt conflicted. He enjoyed the possessiveness with which Sherlock held him and refused to even bother with their ride, but he knew that they couldn’t be late – not if they wanted to get to share a hotel room. “Later, Sherlock. When we’re there. We have to go.”

“I want you inside of me again,” Sherlock murmured against his lips. “Last night wasn’t enough. I need to feel you again.”

“Sherlock,” John pushed harder this time and managed to detangle himself from Sherlock’s needy hands and lips. “I’ll happily do that tonight, but not now. We need to go.”

Without waiting for him, John went into Sherlock’s bedroom to grab his bag. Sherlock followed him a few moments later, his eyes falling on the bed. “Oh.”

“What, oh?”

“Well.”

“You better go and ask Mrs Hudson to do the laundry?”

“Why don't you do it?”

“It’s your bed.”

“It’s your fault,” he countered and John laughed breathlessly. 

“Point taken. Still. I’ll go down to let him know that we’re coming.” He took both of their bags and made his way downstairs. The driver was in fact a woman and John silently chided himself for his automatic assumption that it would have been a man. She looked slightly worried, his phone already in hand, but John apologised and explained to her that Sherlock would be down in a few minutes and that it was definitely their fault. As he was getting into the car, he could see someone taking a picture from a distance and John wondered whether the paparazzi had simply taken an interest or whether Mycroft had decided to stop working under cover. He didn’t like either option. 

Sherlock finally turned up and they made their way to Heathrow. They didn’t speak much, but after a few minutes Sherlock moved closer and pressed his leg against John’s. 

Too soon they had to get out of the car, too soon they had to step away from each other as not to be caught on camera together. Jenson’s car arrived a moment later and he waved at John but joined Sherlock on the way inside the airport, an arm around his shoulders. Once more, John felt immensely grateful for his friend. 

Inside they found the rest of the team assembled, Anderson nodding curtly at John while his assistant Carmen smiled widely at him and waved him over. John walked past Josh and Luke to say good morning and then made his way to Carmen. 

“Hello John,” she said, her smile growing even wider and John wondered what was going on. “Philip wanted to say something to you,” she continued and John looked at his colleague with wide eyes, wondering what he could possibly want to say to him that Carmen would approve of. 

Anderson looked flustered by then and walked a few paces to put a small distance between himself and his assistant. John followed. 

“So?” John started after a few awkward silent seconds had ticked by.

“I wanted to apologise.”

John frowned. “Did Carmen put you up to this? I already told you, you have to apologise to him, not me.”

“No. She just reminded me to." He clearned his throat nervously. "I wanted to apologise to you, John. I’ve been letting my personal opinions get in the way of the work. I was suspicious of your motor because I thought your own judgement was clouded and I was so wrong about that. The motor is fantastic and you have been very patient considering my behaviour.”

John stared at him, both delighted to have his old colleague back as he knew him and horrified to learn that his reservations had not only been against Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry. I know that I made things hard for you these past few weeks while I should have been supportive. I failed you as a colleague and a friend.”

“Thank you,” John held out his hand. “Thank you for saying that.”

Anderson took his hand and blew out his breath he had been holding. “Thank you.”

“Will you talk to Sherlock?”

“Will he be difficult about this?” Anderson asked, looking at Sherlock over John’s shoulder. 

John grinned. “Probably. You deserve it, though.”

Anderson pulled a face and nodded. “I do. Don’t I?”

John chuckled and patted his shoulder. “You’ll be alright.”

Just then, Lestrade showed up, looking like he hadn’t slept all night, holding the largest take away coffee cup John had ever seen in his life and whistled loudly. “Listen up. The plane has landed and is ready for boarding. Hand over your bags at the counter right there. Have your passports and tickets ready for the security check and then make your way quickly and calmly towards gate 24. No duty free shopping. No one is flying first class today as the flight is less than an hour and all of you will be okay with this. No discussion. We go in 60 minutes and whoever is not on board will have to book a new flight on their own, so please, Luke, do not stay behind at the bar again and watch a rerun of last week’s match.”

Everyone chuckled and movement erupted in the hall. John tried his hardest not to seek out Sherlock in the crowd, but he knew Jenson would take care of him. The check in went smoothly, a repetition of a bi-monthly long practiced process during the season, and soon they were all waiting in line to board the plane. 

Just when the doors opened, Sherlock appeared next to John, looking straight ahead. “Good weather for flying,” he commented and John bit his tongue as not to laugh.

“Quite lovely, I agree,” he managed instead, trying his hardest not to look at Sherlock to catch the amused gleam in his eyes he knew was there. 

There was a short moment of seeming confusion when they both stood in front of the stairs and they both wanted to let the other go first. John was delighted when Sherlock finally gave in and went first, only to spend another few seconds standing two steps above John, cocking his hip in pretended annoyance to have to wait to enter the plane as someone was struggling with their hand luggage, but really only doing it to for John’s viewing pleasure. 

Once inside, they both walked quite far towards the back, but Lestrade stopped them before they reached the back. “Oy, you two, you’re not sitting together.” John wondered whether it was for all of their sakes or whether Mycroft had had a word with him. 

John could feel the eyes of the team on them and decided to not do Lestrade the favour of giving him the satisfaction of separating them by force. He shrugged. “I don’t care where I sit.”

Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelash and chose a random seat without even looking at John. “I don’t want to sit next to him anyway.”

Sudden silence descended on the plane and when John sat down, three rows away from Sherlock, he found that everyone was looking at them with more or less shocked expressions. It was in that moment that John realised, without a doubt, that the entire team knew that they were together.


	76. Chapter Seventy-Six

“What?” John asked, trying hard to sound irritated. “Do I have something on my face?”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and came closer. “You’re just fucking around, aren’t you?” he asked under his breath and John frowned. 

“About what?”

Lestrade looked at him hard. Then he looked at Sherlock. John didn’t trust himself to look in his direction for fear of losing his self-control. 

“Never mind,” his boss said slowly and then whipped out his phone and began frantically writing a text. John’s phone chimed but he pointedly switched it off and chose to ignore it in favour of the in-flight magazine, secretly delighted to see Lestrade’s ears go pink. 

John knew Lestrade wanted to say something else, but the captain made an announcement and asked everyone to take their seats. Luke sat down next to John, effectively blocking him off from both Sherlock and his boss, and John leaned back and stared out of the window. 

“You’re alright, right?” Luke asked after they had taken off and John fiddled with his phone, keeping it switched off. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. A bit nervous, obviously, but I’m excited to see how the car holds up. I hope the tyres do. Sherlock’s been careful with her, but you never know with the tarmac in Germany.”

“He was worried about us testing her,” Luke said after a small pause. “Lestrade told us to be extra careful.”

“Oh, yeah, but it was fine. He’s still getting used to having a whole team involved.”

“So you two are …”

“We’re good, yes.” John finally allowed himself a smile.

“Then why aren’t you sitting next to each other?” Luke spoke quietly, but John knew that people around them were listening to them. He decided not to tell him about Lestrade's spontaneous rule which had brought all of this about. 

“The flight’s an hour. There’s no need to always be in the same place all of the time.”

Luke turned around to look at Sherlock and John chanced a glance, meeting his eyes and looking away again quickly. Sherlock looked relaxed, earphones in his ears, the first three buttons of his shirt open, showing way too much skin, and a slightly aloof expression on his face. He looked like a bloody film star, John thought and buried his nose in the in-flight magazine again while he imagined opening the rest of the buttons of his shirt in one of the plane’s tiny toilet stalls. 

The flight was very short, but it seemed endless to John. Even though Sherlock was barely twelve feet away from him, he yearned to be near him – a sensation that he had almost forgotten after being around him so much during the last week. 

When they landed, he could barely keep his hands still and nervously drummed his fingers against the backrest in front of him as they waited to disembark. He was thankful that he had told Luke that he was nervous, otherwise he would have had to force himself to be calm and he wasn’t sure he would have succeeded. 

He left the plane before Sherlock and Sherlock kept his distance in the bus which drove them to the terminal, as well as during the passport control and the luggage retrieval. He knew they would go to the race track first to check on the cars, but there he could at least sneak away for a moment to snog Sherlock. 

It was another two hours and a few very hard stares from Lestrade until John found that he was relatively alone with Sherlock. They were about to go in for the first briefing of the weekend with all teams and Sherlock looked somewhat insecure. 

Instead of kissing him, as John had very colourfully imagined, he simply stood next to him, squeezing his shoulder and looking up at his worried expression. “They know you now, don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything, just listen, get a sense of how everyone is doing …”

“It’s not that. Not entirely,” Sherlock admitted and inhaled deeply. “Sally’s in there.”

“No, she’s not.” Sherlock turned around so quickly he would have stumbled had John not held on to his arm. Sally stood right behind them, looking very different than she had at any other encounter with Sherlock. There were no lines on her forehead, not anger in her eyes, and her shoulders were relaxed instead of tense. 

Her eyes darted to John’s face before they fixed on Sherlock’s again. “I am sorry,” she said, quietly but sincerely. “I misjudged the situation. Repeatedly. In my defence, you weren’t honest with me, but I should have kept a professional distance and not let it cloud my judgement. I have spoken out against you on several occasions and I will try to make amends.”

Sherlock was pale and John held on to his arm tightly. Finally, he inhaled again. “Thank you.” 

She waited for him to say anything else, but Sherlock was silent, so she finally nodded and walked past them and entered the briefing room. 

“Well, that was that,” John said quietly, glancing up at Sherlock who chewed on his lower lip now. 

“I suppose it was,” he murmured eventually and then turned to look at John. He watched Sherlock’s expression change from worried and slightly overwhelmed to calm and collected as if he just pushed the negativity away. “Shall we go inside?”

“We’re not sitting together, are we?”

Sherlock smirked. “I think Lestrade was about to secretly smoke in the toilets, he was so worried.”

“Serves him right.” John grinned. “Do you think he said what he said because of Mycroft?”

Sherlock looked at him sharply. “So you heard?”

“A lot of it.”

“You don’t mind.” It wasn’t a question, but John knew how Sherlock came to that conclusion. John hadn’t brought it up, neither in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, nor during their heated moment in the sitting room, nor in the car. If it had bothered him, he would have said something.

“I mind that I didn’t wake up with you next to me,” John shrugged and made his way into the room. Sherlock went to sit with Jenson while John found a seat next to Carmen, who smiled at him and leaned in. “Sorry to be so direct, but you do look quite chuffed.”

John grinned. “Really?”

“Well, chuffed enough for me to see right through your little stunt on the plane.”

“Ahh, you are the silent watcher, aren’t you?”

She grinned. “I assist. I am used to check what people need at any given time.”

“Should I start getting worried about your spying abilities?”

“Observation. He’s also very good, but he doesn’t notice me. I’m not important to him, so he lets down his guard.”

“Oh, does he now?” John leaned in closer. “I thought he only does it with me.”

Carmen giggled. “You two are hopeless.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you got Anderson to apologise to me?”

“Well, he wanted to, but he chickened out at least three times, so I thought I’d force him to do it. I think he’s more worried about Holmes, though.”

“Oh god, Sherlock will think everyone’s gone mad if he apologises to him today, too.”

She giggled and leaned back and John looked at the back of Sherlock’s head, feeling his heart skip a beat when he half turned as if sensing that John was staring at him. 

Then the teams were officially welcomed and for the next hour John’s mind was taken off Sherlock and firmly transported into the present in which the race weekend was about to begin and work was to be done. 

By the end of it, he felt both anxious and excited, putting down notes about the track’s condition, the events’ schedule and general data which he needed to remember. “Keeping the log book up to date?” Sherlock asked amused when everyone was leaving and John was still scribbling down notes. 

He grinned without looking up. “I don’t have your memory, so I actually need to write things down.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said with a hint of arrogance in his voice and John was not surprised to find Lestrade standing next to Sherlock when he looked up.

“You two, a word,” Lestrade simply said and walked away. John sighed and got up, following him while Sherlock trailed after them. 

Lestrade stopped in a relatively empty hallway and turned around. “What’s going on?”

“Did you talk to my brother?” Sherlock asked before their boss could ask anything else.

“When?” 

“This morning?”

“Not quite.”

“What does that mean.”

“He texted me, told me to watch you two.”

“Oh god, so you’re the watchdog now.”

“Have I ever not been?” Lestrade complained with pretended annoyance. 

“He’s trying to prove that John is bad for me.”

“Bullshit.” He sounded incredulous. Then his eyebrows rose. “Is that why you sat apart on the plane?”

“Well, I was relatively sure that Mycroft had gotten in touch and there was rarely a better chance at annoying him.”

“You think I would report back to him saying that you two had a hissy fit and didn’t want to sit next to each other on an airplane?”

“Well, first of all, you told us not to. Second of all, it would have been proof of a crisis for him,” Sherlock nodded. “He would have loved to hear that from you.”

“Why would you do that if you want to annoy him?”

“Because he thinks he’s always right and it would have been funny if you had to back-paddle and tell him that the plane incident wasn's an issue and that nothing has changed.”

“You need to sort things out with your brother,” Lestrade said, clearly talking to Sherlock as a friend and not as his employer. 

“That’s what I tried to do. And instead of doing me the favour of buggering off, he asked you to spy for him. Because that’s exactly the kind of person he is.”

“So everything is alright and you are ready for the weekend?”

John and Sherlock nodded. “Absolutely,” John added for good measure.

“Right. You’ve got the details for the hotel. You’re on different floors, just so you’re aware, and I want to see you back here by three thirty so we can do the first tests.”

“Aye, captain,” John grinned.

“Three thirty sharp.”

“We heard you,” Sherlock said with an eye roll.

“Off you go, then.”

They walked away, but Sherlock turned around again. “Are you going to tell Mycroft about the flight?”

“Depends. I’ll make that decision tonight once I’ve gotten a sense of how well behaved you are.”

Sherlock huffed. “Right.”

John called Jenson to see whether he was already at the hotel and found that he had waited for them. Together with several members of the team they were shuttled to the hotel, much to John’s relief, as the press was camping out in front of the hotel. 

Once more he pretended to not pay any attention to Sherlock as they walked into the hotel and he checked into his room without turning around once to look for him. He did repeat his room number loudly to the clerk, though, knowing that Sherlock would pay attention, and then left to find his room. 

It took Sherlock a whole five minutes to knock on his door and John pulled him inside and locked the door before pressing Sherlock against it. 

“Did anybody see you?”

“Would I be here if anyone had?”

“Fair point.”

“Which room are you in?”

“Is that at all important at the moment?” Sherlock asked, running his fingers down John’s chest. 

John shrugged. “It feels like I should have kissed you sooner.”

“Are you really going to talk about it instead of making amends for missing that opportunity?”

John laughed and closed the short distance between their bodies, pulling Sherlock down into a heated kiss, finding Sherlock’s hands settle on his arse while Sherlock pressed against him, forcing him to bend backwards until his legs were dangerously close to giving out. 

“Stop,” John gasped, turning his head to escape Sherlock’s lips. Instead of doing what he was asked, Sherlock simply attached his lips to the sensitive spot behind his jaw and under his ear, pressing his tongue against his already flushed skin.

“Wait, Sherlock. Fuck. Fuck. Don’t stop.” John clung to Sherlock, hoping they wouldn’t just topple over and drop to the ground. Instead, Sherlock hooked one leg around John’s and pulled, quickly taking hold of his legs with his right arm, effectively lifting John off his feet. 

“Oh my god,” John said loudly and Sherlock chuckled. 

“You’re supposed to be on your own in here.”

“This isn’t helping.”

“What isn’t?”

“You, reminding me that we can’t be loud.”

Sherlock smirked and carried him over to the bed. John could see in his eyes that he considered throwing him, but then he gently lowered him on the bed, kissing him fully on the lips before he straightened again. 

“What are you doing?” John asked, breathless, both because of Sherlock’s apparent ease at lifting him and because he wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to climb on top of him and continue where they had left off this morning.

Sherlock didn’t answer but went to the door, picked up the ‘do not disturb’ sign, unlocked the door and put it outside before closing and locking the door again. “The whole team knows about us and judging from how much they all love you, I am sure they will try to interrupt, just for the sake of it.”

“For someone who doesn’t like crowds, you know an awful lot about group dynamics.”

“That’s the reason why I don’t like crowds.”

“But you like me,” John said with a smile and opened his arms. 

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and then pulled off John’s before he climbed on the bed and into John’s arms. “I do.”

“I’m sorry I eaves-dropped on you and Mycroft this morning,” John admitted, hugging Sherlock close. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Sorry I woke you up.”

“Do you think he’ll do what you asked of him?”

“Your file? Hmm. I hope he will. Otherwise I have to spend time thinking of ways to annoy him.”

“Thank you for doing that. For me.”

“Not for anyone else,” Sherlock smiled. “I just hope he includes all the high resolution photographs of you and me.”

“Oh, was that the alternative plan for going to his office and demanding copies?”

Sherlock smirked, but then he grew serious. “I thought he understood. When he called in his favour with Art GP I thought he did it because he finally understood. He’s so wrong about you. I don’t understand how he can be so wrong.”

“I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. I also wanted to punch him in the face, but I did feel sorry for him.”

“Why?”

“I think he knows he’s losing you.”

“He never had me.”

“He's your brother with control issues who made sure you spent your life basically on your own. Of course he knows he's losing you. He thinks he can save you, but you don’t want to be saved. For him, you’re someone who needs saving, but you’re not, and he can’t understand that.”

“Well, I did need saving,” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes fixed on John’s face. 

“You’re alright, though, right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Thanks for saying what you said to him. About me. That was rather sweet of you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his ears gained colour. “Well.”

“I’m glad you know.”

“Know what?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit breathless.

“How I feel about you. And that you believe me when I tell you, or rather, that you know about it even when I don’t tell you. And for forgiving me.”

Sherlock looked conflicted for a moment before he placed his chin on John’s left collar bone and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I could have forgiven Victor, or Sally, if I hadn’t had to go through it all with you first.”

“We haven’t really talked about Victor.” John noted, secretly hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t feel the need to, at least not now.

“You were right about him. You know people so much better than I do.”

“That’s not true. I mean, you know people. You seem to know so much more than anyone else, just by watching them.”

“I couldn’t figure out that _you_ wanted me,” Sherlock lifted his head to look at him again, his eyes frequently flicking down to his lips. “And I didn’t know that Victor did either.”

“Well, so you’re terrible at reading people when it comes to you, personally, but in general, you are very good at it.”

“But you knew, without even knowing him.”

“Because I couldn’t imagine that anyone wouldn’t want you.” John admitted, “especially not if they were so close to you.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and frowned at John as if to see whether he was serious or would start laughing after all. When John didn’t, his expression softened. “I imagined it to be much worse, but somehow, I barely think about him now.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “You said you don’t want him in bed with us. And, honestly, I wouldn’t mind so much if we didn’t talk about him, or Mycroft, while we’re here.”

“Are you dependent on his money?”

Sherlock gave John a disapproving look, but he did answer. “Somewhat. He did pay up when I made mistakes, and I’m sure Lestrade won’t be happy about the withdrawal in funds, but I signed the contract. It’s enough to afford the rent in Baker Street and to live off it.”

“It’s going to be more than just that,” John smiled. “You didn’t even read the contract, did you?”

“Well, no,” Sherlock admitted. 

“And you’ll get a huge bonus for winning Silverstone.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That money is already going into a project.”

“A project?” John was curious now. “What project?”

“Nothing definite yet, so I can’t say.”

“Tease.”

“Speaking of,” Sherlock shifted a bit to press his hips against John’s. “I came down here to see you naked, not to talk to you. Especially since you’re supposed to be alone in the room anyway and not make any noise.”

“That is going to be a challenge,” John admitted and Sherlock laughed quietly. 

“Oh, a challenge for me?”

“Don’t you dare!”

Sherlock grinned widely and rolled off John, pushing at his shirt before he attached his lips to every bit of skin he could reach with his mouth. John moaned quietly and then clasped his hand across his mouth, much to Sherlock’s amusement. “I haven’t even started yet!”

“Hmm,” John half complained, half urged him to continue; at least he hoped Sherlock would interpret his noise in that way. For good measure, he buried his hand in Sherlock’s hair and pressed down, his breath hitching when Sherlock bit at a nipple. 

He took his time and John fought the urge to check his watch. They should have plenty of time, but somehow he lost all feeling for it when he was with Sherlock like this – whether it was talking or making love.

He squeezed his eyes shut when Sherlock unbuttoned his jeans and pulled at the zipper, his knuckles brushing along his cotton clad erection. Then, with a single sure motion, Sherlock pulled both his trousers and his pants down to his ankles, leaving him half exposed in the heat of the mid day. 

For a moment, John was distracted. There was no air-conditioning, and if it was already as warm in the room as it was now even though the room faced north, he knew the race track would be sizzling in the heat. 

“John,” Sherlock stopped kissing his stomach and looked up. “Shut up.”

“I’m not …,” John lifted his head to complain before he understood what Sherlock meant and dropped his head back, closing his eyes again to enjoy the sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his skin while his hand finally settled on his hardness and began stroking him slowly. 

“More,” he whispered and Sherlock held him more firmly, adding a twist at the end of each stroke, making John jerk every time his thumb circled his head. “Thank you.”

Sherlock sped up slowly, but continued to kiss him, moving from his stomach to his thighs and almost down to his knees before kissing his way north again, making John yearn for the sensation of his lips around his cock. But he wouldn’t complain, John promised himself. Sherlock had every right to experiment, especially after facing down his meddling brother and getting Lestrade to be on his side. 

“John!”

“Oh, god, sorry,” John huffed, slightly annoyed with himself. 

“Relax,” Sherlock said, smiling at John with so much love in his eyes that he felt his breath knocked out of him. 

“Sorry, it’s just, the weekend and …”

“Oh, I know. A lot happened. But you need to practice to relax.”

“Oh, is this practice?”

“Part of the training, yes.”

“Training for what?”

“Avoiding panic attacks.”

“You jacking me off is therapy, then?”

Sherlock let go of him and moved up, coming to lie on him, an entirely clothed body pressed to a half naked one. “If it wasn’t you’d be begging for release by now.”

John groaned and grabbed two hands-full of arse and squeezed. Sherlock did his best to hide his arousal, but John saw the signs anyway: his quickening breath, his large pupils while his eye lids grew heavy, the tell-tale flush of his neck. And then, of course, the minor detail of his trapped hardness against his hip.

“You are not going to come without me touching you,” John said, squeezing again, and this time Sherlock moaned loudly. 

“I forbid it.”

“Then stop thinking and let me do you before it’s too late.”

“Could you come just from doing what you just did to me?”

“Probably. But now we’ll never find out, will we?”

“I didn’t say I'd forbid it always. Just not now. Because I need to touch you.”

Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his teeth as if considering whether to accept John’s limit or not. He finally shrugged, kissed him sloppily, and moved down his body again.

John exhaled a moan and buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair again. This time his thoughts didn’t wander, but he concentrated on the way his slightly stubbly chin felt against his sensitive skin, how his hand felt, stroking along his length while his other hand, pressed against his hip, held him in place and rooted him in the moment. 

When Sherlock finally let him slip between his lips, John arched up, overwhelmed with the sensation of it. And when Sherlock began sucking on him, his tongue doing indecent things to his foreskin and glans, he found that he couldn’t calm down again. 

Sherlock’s hand pressed harder now, trying to keep him from choking him while he had wrapped a few fingers around the base of his cock so he could control how deeply he could jerk into his mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John gasped, trying very hard to not get too loud but finding it impossible to care. When Sherlock sped up, he snatched up a pillow and pressed it against his face, his screams muffled by it, but still much too loud in his ears. 

He found that not seeing what Sherlock was doing made it even worse and he felt the tension that had been building throughout the day culminate in the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, and breathless and desperate he came, arching up again only to be forced back onto the mattress by Sherlock’s hand and kept there, waves of pleasure ripping through him, more intense than he could ever remember a blowjob being. 

He kept the pillow where it was, breathing heavily against the damp cotton cover, trying to understand why he had come so hard. 

Eventually Sherlock pulled the pillow away from his face and looked at him inquisitively. “What did just happen?” he asked quietly, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and John understood that he had swallowed again, probably to avoid a mess, and that he must have fought for it, considering how violently John had arched up. 

“I don’t know,” John shuddered and Sherlock smirked. “But you’ve definitely learned a lot in two weeks,” he added with an exhausted chuckle. 

“I didn’t know this was possible,” Sherlock said after a moment of just watching John calmly. “For it to be so intense.”

“I think I was annoyed with you and with myself, so I was already on edge and then you just … well.”

“So, are you saying this happens when you are annoyed?”

John huffed and scratched his chin. “Sometimes, I guess, it triggers something that makes the sex more intense.”

“Adrenaline.”

“Quicker heart rate.”

“Competitiveness?”

John grinned. “Possibly. But I don’t think it was that at the moment.”

Sherlock lay down on his back next to John and stared up at the ceiling before he began to undress himself. He unbuttoned his shirt before he moved on to his cuffs, and then his trousers, leaving his shirt on and only slipping a hand into his opened trousers. A satisfied moan escaped him and John finally found the strength to push himself up. “Let me,” he tugged at Sherlock’s wrist and then leaned down to drag his lips over Sherlock’s chest before moving lower. 

When he reached his navel he looked up and found Sherlock staring at him with wide eyes. He looked conflicted. 

“What?”

“I want you to use your mouth, but I also want to kiss you,” he said with a frown. 

“What do you want more?” John asked, pushing at his trousers and underwear. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know. Both. I want both.”

“Okay, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll kiss you until you feel that it’s not a priority anymore and then I, well,” he grinned, “kiss you.”

“Kissing you is always a priority,” Sherlock said breathlessly. 

“Does that mean you are usually holding back?”

“Every minute that I am not kissing you.”

“Liar.” John grinned and tapped Sherlock’s arse to signal for him to lift it and pushed his trousers all the way below his knees. 

“Most of the time.”

“You know that you can kiss me any time you want.”

“Except when people are around.”

“Well, yes, but, you know, under normal circumstances, at home. Just kiss me when you feel like it.”

“You’ll not be annoyed?”

“Well, first of all, I am holding back a lot, too. I don’t want to overwhelm you and … I am realising that I needn’t worry about that now, but, well, on the other hand, if I did get annoyed … you just saw what happened.”

“You’d tell me no when you mean it?”

“I will, Sherlock. And you, too. Anything you don’t want, you tell me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Deal.”

“Good. Now, where were we?” John grinned and moved up to press his lips gently against Sherlock’s while his hand began moving slowly along his cock. Sherlock moaned against his lips and John kissed him harder, feeling his whole body vibrate. 

Sherlock got very close very quickly, and when he started to get loud, John pressed his palm against his lips and moved down until he could suck him into his mouth. Sherlock placed his own hand across John’s and pressed down hard, trying to stifle his moans which grew more frequent by the second. 

John would have loved to drag this out, but he knew that now wasn’t the time for it. So he closed his lips around Sherlock and used his tongue to increase the pressure and quickened his pace. 

Sherlock spread his legs wider, placing his left hand on John’s cheek, watching him with hooded eyes while every breath against John’s hand was a moan. 

When John looked up, Sherlock tipped over the edge, grunting while his hand clumsily stroked John’s face. He jerked a few times while John swallowed around him and finally pushed John’s hand away from his mouth, sucking in air like a drowning man.

John moved back up and waited until Sherlock seemed sufficiently calm before he kissed him again. “I love watching you come,” he whispered against his lips.

Sherlock made a small noise and John smiled. “Do we need to get up or do we have a few minutes,” he then asked and Sherlock reached out for his trousers and pulled out his phone. 

“An hour.”

“Can you set your alarm?”

“To what?”

“Half an hour of snuggling?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “ _Snuggling_?”

John grinned. “Yes.”

“Right,” Sherlock gave John a doubtful look but then he carefully placed his phone on the night stand before he pulled John against his chest.

John knew that falling asleep now was not a good idea, but he felt boneless and overwhelmed with affection for Sherlock, and he couldn’t think of anything better than to lie in his arms right then.


	77. Chapter Seventy-Seven

The alarm shocked him awake and for a long moment John wanted nothing more than to move even closer into Sherlock’s embrace and just lie there for hours and hours. 

“We need to get ready,” Sherlock murmured against his hair and John sighed. 

“I should be nervous, but I’m not. I’m just upset that we can’t stay here.”

“You’ll feel different as soon as we’re at the circuit.”

“True. Probably.”

“Would you feel differently if I weren’t here?” Sherlock asked and John pulled back to look at him sharply. 

“Yes?”

Sherlock smiled and then pulled back, rolling off the bed. “Get ready then.” In a moment he was dressed and out of the room. 

John wanted to follow him, but remembered that he still didn’t know Sherlock’s room number, so he went to wash up, brushed his teeth and put on his fireproofs and suit. 

He waited for Sherlock in the shade of the hotel’s entrance, but it was Jenson who showed up first. There were still a few photographers around, but John didn’t mind so much now. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“You’ll be fine once we’re down there.”

“It’s already very hot.”

“We’ll do our best.”

John nodded. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked after a while.

Jenson nodded. “Sure.”

“And please be honest. Could you imagine having him on the team as a driver?”

Jenson looked at him for a long moment before he averted his eyes. “Instead of Kevin, you mean?”

John nodded.

“I’d never be able to win another race,” he said with a small smile and John chuckled. “But yes. I could. If that’s a question you really want the answer to.”

“I know it’s not my place, but Sherlock admitted that he would really like to drive. Not as a sub, but as a proper driver. I didn’t know, before, I mean. I thought he wouldn’t want to be a driver on the team, but I think he never really talked about this to anyone.”

“Kevin’s been doing really well, though.”

“I know,” John said sadly. “That’s why I am so torn about this. But with your experience and his talent, you two could change the game.”

Jenson nodded slowly, deliberately. “Has he talked to Lestrade about this?”

“Lestrade wants to wait and see how the weekend goes.”

“Even more impressive that you’re so calm.” 

“Well, he said it’s on Sherlock. I don’t think it matters to Lestrade whether Sherlock wins, he just wants to see if he’s able to follow instructions. But I know Sherlock wants to win, and that might be a problem.”

“Because he might just run off and go his own way to win,” Jenson nodded. “Ah, there he is.”

Sherlock walked out of the entrance with his hair freshly wet from the shower, his sunglasses on and his bag over his shoulder. John had a little moment in which he simply stared at him before he checked himself and walked back inside, asking the porter to call a car around. 

Jenson opened the front door of the car for Sherlock, and, with a small sigh, he got in and watched John through the rear view mirror throughout the ride. 

They reached the track in time and Lestrade looked pleased. “Shall we go to work then?” he asked, rubbing his hands together and turned to take them down into their pit.

The pits were busy, but the track itself was still quiet. John badly wanted to do the walk-around, but he knew that it would be smarter to wait until later when the sun was lower. 

Instead, he got to work and helped set up the garage, finding that he had slightly changed his own order of the tools to accommodate Sherlock’s system when he placed them carefully in a row. Anderson nodded at him when he walked past him and John smiled, relieved that he could forget about their petty feud and concentrate on what was important.

“I’m taking the lads to the motor home. Call me if anything’s missing.” Lestrade handed John a water bottle. “And drink this. Doctor’s orders.”

John looked around and saw Aki at the entrance of the pit, giving him a wave and then pointing at his own right shoulder. John gave him a thumbs-up and a nod before he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. Aki was right. He had been thirsty and at this temperature he’d need to be careful. 

Three hours later the McLaren pit was set up and the cars were brought in. Out of nowhere, Sherlock showed up, sweat glistening on his forehead and upper lip, and John silently handed him a new bottle of water. Sherlock walked around the car, stroking her gently with his hands, kneeling down to look closely at the air vents. John sat down on the ground after getting himself another water bottle and leaned against the tyre, watching Sherlock and deciding that yes, Sherlock had always been sexy when he had touched the car.

Sherlock sat down opposite him, the tips of their shoes touching, and looked back. For a long moment, they were both entirely still, calm in each other’s presence. Then Jenson showed up and immediately fumbled for his phone and snapped a photo, grinning at the two. 

John had to smile and Sherlock mirrored him. 

“Did I interrupt a moment?”

“It’s fine,” John said and patted the ground next to his knee. “Come join us down here. The floor isn’t as hot as everything else.”

Jenson chuckled and sat down, effectively blocking everyone who wanted to walk past the car on that side of the garage. But when Josh complained, Jenson simply smiled at him widely and returned his attention to John and Sherlock. 

“If it’s this hot on Sunday, we’ll have a problem.”

“Yes, the tyres are one issue, the motor will be the other.” John agreed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John moved his foot so their ankles touched. 

“Both of you will need to be careful. We’ll have to do at least two stops. Otherwise we can’t guarantee that the tyres won’t just melt off.”

“Currently there’s a small chance that we might get a thunderstorm,” Jenson noted, chewing on his lip. 

John glanced at Sherlock before looking at Jenson. “It doesn’t matter. Both of you will be careful, no matter what the weather will be like.”

“Yes, but if it rains your motor will be cooler and the tyres wouldn’t blister.”

“And chances of you twirling your arse off the track are about eighty percent higher than in dry weather,” John grinned. 

“Seventy nine point seven, actually,” Sherlock added and both Jenson and John stared at him before laughter bubbled up. 

“I want you safe, that’s all,” John said after they had calmed down. “Both of you.”

Sherlock nodded and John looked at him, a small knot dissolving in his gut. “No matter what?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Reasonably safe?” he offered. 

John exhaled loudly and finally nodded. 

“It’ll be fine,” Jenson said. “Don’t worry too much.”

John felt the heat of his suit more pronounced all of the sudden and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Yeah.”

“John?” Sherlock looked at him with searching eyes. “You okay?”

John nodded but then shook his head and Sherlock was up in a second, pulling him to his feet. “Think of the training,” he said quietly, both hands on John’s shoulders, squeezing gently. 

John closed his eyes and tried to remember Sherlock touching him, making love to his body in the heat of their room, his cheeks flushed and his lips raw from kissing him. He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes again. 

“And the goat.”

John chuckled and found that his breathing was back to normal. He nodded and Sherlock understood and stepped away, but John followed him, pulling him into a hug. 

He was acutely aware that there were cameras present and that the entire team, and potentially any member of any of the other teams, might be witness to the embrace, but he needed to hold him. 

When another pair of arms embraced them both, he laughed. Jenson giggled and squeezed harder. 

And then a very happy Felipe who had just been passing the box simply walked in and joined the group hug, simultaneously begging them to not give him up to the authorities for trespassing. 

Sherlock looked very confused when they all pulled away and John hugged Felipe before he moved on to Jenson, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek and finally drawing Sherlock back into his arms and, more or less accidentally, kissing the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek. 

“Thanks, all of you,” he said and then just walked away, leaving Felipe to say hello to Sherlock and Jenson. He found Lestrade at the conning board opposite of the pits and leaned against the fence, enjoying a cooling breeze in the late afternoon light. When the sun would have set, it would be a brilliant night, perfect for a camp fire and skinny dipping in a lake, he mused. 

“What happened?” Lestrade asked once he had checked all the connections and switched off the board. 

“Why do you think something happened?”

Lestrade gave him a telling look so John pushed himself away from the fence. 

“I was close to a panic attack, but Sherlock … managed to stop it. I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

“You came to tell me that?”

“I’m more worried than I was last time,” John admitted. “I thought of accidents and possible mistakes and … well …”

“Yes?”

“I think I need to drive again to get back into the right mindset.”

Lestrade stared at him. “What, now?”

“No, in general.”

“Okay?”

“I’m not asking for anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just … well, thanks for putting us into one room.”

Lestrade chuckled. “You two put yourself in one room. As far as I am concerned, you’re in room 112 and he’s in 311.”

“Yes, obviously,” John smirked, happy to have found out Sherlock’s room number without having to ask him. 

“Have you told Mike?”

“No, I just realised.”

“Have you told him?” Lestrade turned to look at the box where Kimi had joined Felipe, Jenson and Sherlock. He frowned deeply. “Well, that’s never happened.”

“Good or bad?” John asked.

“Well, theoretically they can’t be there. They might want to steal your motor.”

John grinned. “But?”

“None of them are actually paying attention to the car, so I’m giving them five minutes to leave on their own before I throw them out.”

“I haven’t told him.” John admitted. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Lestrade nodded. “You are better, though, right?”

“Aki helped. I think if I stick to his routine I can actually become physically fit again.”

“Has he been swimming?”

“He swims?” John stared at Sherlock who quietly spoke to Kimi. 

“Used to swim for more than an hour every day when he was unwell. Tuned it down a bit after, but I don’t think he has been going to the pool at all since Silverstone.”

“Well, we did spend about three minutes in a Scottish lake before we almost froze to death,” John smiled. “I was wondering how he kept himself in that shape.”

Lestrade gave him a telling look and handed him a stack of paper. “Look at these tonight, will you?”

“What are those?” John tried hard not to continue speaking about Sherlock. 

“He’s probably done all of this in his head already, but those are the equations for the different weather options and reactions of the car. Sherlock’s, not Jenson’s. Anderson has the according set. I want you two to compare notes tomorrow to see if any last minute changes are possible before the first free practice.”

John nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Something else,” Lestrade stepped closer to him. “Sherlock’s brother texted me.”

John rolled his eyes. “What did he want now?”

“Said you left your car parked out on the street. He had it picked up and stored in a garage until you are back.”

“What?” John was entirely out of his depth concerning Mycroft. On the one hand side, he believed that it could be one of his very strange ways of showing support for his brother, while, on the other hand side, John was almost sure that it meant that Mycroft would hold the car hostage and make him promise to leave Sherlock alone if he wanted to see it again. It was strangely satisfying to feel very sure that he would choose Sherlock before the car every time. 

Lestrade stepped even closer. “I know Sherlock’s view on things and your own experience might have tarnished your idea of what kind of person he is, but, in the end, he does want to help him get where he wants to be.”

John turned to look at him. “He’s crazy and a bully.”

“Not so much crazy as obsessively overprotective, but I see your point.”

“He kidnapped me.” Now that John was actually admitting it to his boss, he wondered why he hadn’t said something earlier. He figured between worrying about Sherlock, and Lestrade not asking why Sherlock spoke out aggressively against him, he had felt powerless in the face of such a man. Now he understood that Mycroft might be a powerful man, but that he had a chance at besting him where it came to Sherlock. “At Silverstone, he had me taken away after the race to tell me to leave Sherlock alone. I hurt myself getting out of there. That’s why Sherlock was so upset with him at the hospital.”

Lestrade scratched his chin and pursed his lips. “I’ll have a word with him.”

“Oh, would you?” John realised it sounded like begging, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “He needs to know that I am the last person who wants anything bad to happen to Sherlock.”

Lestrade smiled. “I know. He knows that, too, probably.”

John exhaled loudly. “Thank you. I’ll see if I can get him to walk the track with me.”

“Don’t forget to do your homework.”

John grinned. “Don’t worry, I won't.”

“Be back here tomorrow morning at eight.”

“Sharp,” John added and walked back across the pit lane into their box. 

Kimi had left but Felipe still chatted with Jenson while Sherlock had begun reading something on his phone again. 

“Sherlock, do you want to take a walk with me?”

Sherlock looked up sharply as if to see if John was being metaphorical before he nodded. “Where to?”

“Around the track.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. Of course.”

He took another bottle and then pocketed his phone before he unzipped his suit and pushed the top down to his hips. John tried not to stare too much at the too tight fire proof overall and did the same. Together they took off, leaving the pits in race direction, walking quietly next to each other. It was only when they reached the Parabolika and found that they were utterly alone that they walked closer together. 

“Did it work?” Sherlock finally asked, glancing at John anxiously. 

“What exactly?” John asked, although he was sure Sherlock referred to his diverted panic attack.

“The training?”

“The goat worked very well.”

Sherlock grinned at John before he grew serious again. “I’ll be careful.”

John stopped in his tracks, staring at the tarmac under his feet, imagining cars chasing past him, the ground vibrating with dozens of tyres. “I need you to be. A part of me doesn’t want you to race at all,” he admitted. “But I don’t really have the right to ask that of you.”

Sherlock stepped closer, close enough for John to reach out and touch him. 

“I know what you are saying. You are saying that I should do what I think is right.”

John nodded. 

“But, you see, even if I wanted to. I’ve seen you be truly afraid and I never want to see you like this again. So I will be careful, even if my version of careful might not equal yours, or Lestrade’s, but I will be reasonable.” 

For a long moment John looked at him, the final sun beams turning his hair auburn and his skin orange. Then he stepped closer and pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

“Should we do this?” Sherlock asked, his hands resting too loosely on John’s back.

“No, definitely not,” John said sadly. Pulling away from Sherlock was almost physically painful. “I have homework, which will take a while, and I need to stretch.”

“Meaning?”

“That you are meddling with my priorities.”

“I don't even feature in either of your proposed activities,” Sherlock complained and moved two steps away.

John laughed and began walking again. “You know very well that you do.”

“In which way?”

“In a naked way.”

Sherlock laughed out loud and followed him. 

“Lestrade told me you swim.”

“Occasionally.”

“Liar.”

“Well, on a semi-regular basis, then.”

“It explains a lot about your body,” John said without looking at him. “And here I was, thinking you were just weirdly fit.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I don’t do it to work out.”

“Oh, your bloody perfect body is just a side effect, is it?”

Sherlock almost stumbled over his own feet at that and John smiled. 

“Well, I do it to distract myself from my thoughts. I sometimes run, too. ”

John finally looked at him again. Sherlock was entirely serious.

“When I swim, I don’t need to think. The water drowns everything else out. And if I feel that I am stuck, it helps me distance myself from the issue and to approach it from a different perspective.”

“You haven’t been swimming since I met you?”

“I tried on Friday before Silverstone, but I couldn’t concentrate on not concentrating.”

“It does make sense, though, that you do, considering that you once tried to swim the entire length of the loch.”

“Same reason, different things I needed distraction from.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Swimming? Yes, why?”

“Good. I just wanted to make sure that it’s something you actually like to do and not something you force yourself to go through.” 

Sherlock glanced at him but he didn't say anything else about it.

They had reached the hairpin and Sherlock turned to look back onto the track. A grin lit up his face. “You’d be the person floating on your back telling me to enjoy the feeling of weightlessness.”

John chuckled. “Yes, and once I had you there I would splash water at your face and tickle you.”

The sun finally disappeared behind the trees and John was happy about the evening breeze which cooled their faces. “I think I want to race you.”

“Don’t you think they would possibly find that kind of behaviour disagreeable here?”

John chuckled. “I don’t mean running.”

Sherlock’s head turned sharply to look at him. 

“I think it might help with the helplessness.”

“John, if it is because I asked you to …” he looked worried. 

“No. I mean, yes, a bit of that, too. But I just talked to Lestrade and it suddenly seemed obvious to me. I loved racing. I really did. The rush. All of it. And what you said, in bed, about us fighting. I want that.”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into his. John could see that he wanted to say something, but he remained quiet. 

“I’ve been angry for so long, mostly at myself. I think it’s one of the reasons why I struggle with Aki’s exercises. I’ve gotten used to giving up. I don’t want to feel like that anymore. I want to fight.”

He exhaled slowly and then began walking again. Sherlock followed him after a moment. 

“If I had been like I was before the accident, I’m sure I would have asked you out on that first day,” John smiled. “I was so sure of myself then.”

Sherlock took his elbow and then pressed a quick kiss to his jaw. “And I would have panicked and disappeared.”

John chuckled. “Probably, yeah. But you know, the memories have been so dark that I forgot that even during that race I felt great. If the accident hadn’t happened I would have gotten out of my car being once more happy to be doing what I was doing. And instead of holding on to that to get better, I held on to the pain and the fear and the anger that it happened to me.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, slipping his hand into John’s in yet another daring move. 

“I saw you in the pit.”

Sherlock frowned. “And?”

John smiled and pulled him closer until they walked shoulder to shoulder, still holding hands. 

“You looked like you belonged there, right next to the car, chatting with Kimi.”

Sherlock watched John’s face closely. 

“I don’t think you realise how your presence changed the game. The drivers never go to the other pits uninvited. It’s not only not allowed, but it’s not something anybody does. You hang out in the drivers’ camp during lunch and during parties, but not in the boxes.”

“What are you saying?”

“You went from not talking to anyone to being actively sought out by colleagues.” John squeezed his hand before he let go of it and put a little distance between himself and Sherlock. They came closer to the Motodrom and John knew they had been too visible already. “And I thought that you have changed so much since I met you first that it would be impossible for me to not also change.”

“You did change,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’re building cars now and you are driving long distances without any issues.”

“Maybe, but I think I need to do what you did. I need to actively face my fears.”

“Which is exactly what I just said you did.”

“Do you think?”

“I do.”

“It didn’t really feel like it, because you were always there to help.”

"So were you."

For a long while neither of them spoke. Only when they came near the finish line, John stopped again. “I think I’m ready.”

Sherlock smiled and said nothing.


	78. Chapter Seventy-Eight

The pits were very calm now, most teams having packed in for the day. Lestrade sat in front of a computer in the back of the garage, a pen dangling from the corner of his mouth and two empty coffee cups sitting next to him on the table.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Ah, there you are.”

“You knew where we were,” John pointed out.

“Yes, I just wasn’t sure you’d ever make it back,” he grinned. “Have a look at this,” he pointed at his screen.

John expected to see security footage of the track, but Lestrade had not been spying on them. It was strange how the connection between his boss and Mycroft Holmes made John suspect the most absurd things. Instead, he had found a weather chart, outlining weather changes in summer during heat periods in south-western Germany. 

Sherlock whistled through his teeth while John was still trying to find a pattern or make sense of the chart. 

“What am I looking at,” John finally asked, and when Sherlock inhaled deeply, he stopped him to clarify. “I know what I am looking at. I just don’t understand why it’s so fascinating.”

“Weather can change for all kinds of reasons,” Lestrade began, but Sherlock interrupted him. 

“Statistically, Sunday will, in fact, be a wet race.”

“An option we have considered and decided that it’s not a good one?” John nodded.

“Fun fact,” Lestrade grinned. “This will probably be one of those surprising weather changes. If we’re lucky, and I use lucky as a very lax term here, the weather will shift towards rain very quickly during the day.”

“But, we’re not very good in rain. Nobody is.”

“But we could be very good if we drive with the right tyres while everyone else drives on slicks.”

“We’d fall back quite a bit, though.”

“Obviously we have to consider the qualifying and Sherlock’s starting position. But, if we play the game of trusting the stats, it should start raining approximately thirty minutes into the race.” 

“So we start on slicks and then call him and Jenson in for a stop and hope that it starts to rain?”

“As soon as it looks like it will rain. We’ll be properly prepared.”

“You are aware that clouds usually do the thing where they show up in the sky before it starts to rain? So everyone will be able to call in a tyre change. Also, it’s still a long time until the race, we can’t possibly know about the weather.”

“Yes, but in theory. If we go first we’ll already be on the wet track with the right tyres before everyone panics and we’ll have three laps of traffic in the pit lane.”

“There’ll be a weather warning. Everyone has sources,” John pointed out. 

“But most will go with a one stop strategy and start with a full tank and hope to get to lap 35 at least if they hope for a wet race.” Sherlock piped up.

“So we go with two stops and fill up when it starts raining and change tyres again once it clears up?”

“Chances are that the race will be interrupted,” Lestrade grinned. “So Sherlock doesn’t have to work so hard on getting far ahead of everyone else.”

“It’ll be good for the motor.” Sherlock nodded. “And that is what we were trying to focus on, right?”

John nodded. “Well, yes.”

“You’re not convinced.”

“I’d rather it wouldn’t rain, that is all,” he said, shrugging. 

“Accidents,” Sherlock noted and John nodded again. 

“Well,” Lestrade closed the file and switched off the computer. “We’ll see. I just wanted you to know that this is now a possible scenario, among many others.”

“Yes, thank you,” John pulled himself together. “Sorry for being skeptical.”

“That’s your job,” Lestrade smiled. “Now, let’s go get some dinner.”

Sherlock gave John a look that very clearly told him that Sherlock had no interest in getting dinner with anyone else but John, but he ignored him. “Yes, lets.”

“Fine,” Sherlock finally said and, walking past Molly, gently patted her flank as if to say good night to her. 

The team was already mostly assembled in the makeshift cafeteria and John and Sherlock found a corner to sit in while Lestrade began handing out further homework while trying to get a bite in between arranging appointments and delegating tasks. John felt a bit sorry for him, but remembered that Lestrade had always been that way. It was only that John had never truly paid attention to what everyone else was doing on the team. He felt a little guilty about that realisation. 

He drank what looked like tea but tasted like slightly bitter water and tried to get a feeling for the atmosphere. Things were relaxed and most of the team was cheerful, albeit sweaty. 

There was talk of trespassing on a local outdoor swimming pool to cool down and nostalgic voices recalled the many times the swimming pool next to the Monza race track had been abused by all of the teams, and particularly during one infamous GP weekend when the Ferrari mechanics had simply removed the fence separating the track from the pool and dozens of people had enjoyed a swim in the middle of the night. 

He was pulled out of his memories when Sherlock moved closer, pressing his leg against John’s. “Do you want to go back?” he asked quietly and John looked at him closely. 

“We could get room service and talk things over?”

Sherlock nodded. 

John patted his knee and stood up, telling Lestrade and Mike that they’d be at the hotel and to call anytime if they needed to before he walked away to find a car. Sherlock joined him a few minutes later and together they left the circuit. It was only when they reached the hotel that John remembered that it was almost a tradition that some fans would gather in front of the hotels, knowing that the teams would return from the first day of work, still relaxed enough to take the time to chat to them and sign autographs. 

“Are you going to sign for them?” John asked Sherlock, who looked like he would rather sit in the car all night when they stopped in front of the hotel and the first few curious fans approached the car hesitantly. 

“They won’t recognise me,” he finally said and John chuckled. 

“They will know exactly who you are.” 

“Why are we doing an autograph session on Saturday if these people want autographs on a Wednesday?” 

“I’ll wait for you inside.”

“You’ll leave me?” Sherlock sounded almost terrified.

“Oh, should I hold your purse while you sign?”

Sherlock glowered at him but John grinned. “I’ll be inside.” He took out his phone and pretended to be on a call when he got out of the car and, waving at a few people who called out for him, he made his way into the lobby. 

He could hear Sherlock’s name being called as soon as he stepped out of the car and, even though John had almost been sure that he wouldn’t, he walked over to the small crowd and signed away. John made his way up to the third floor and waited in front of Sherlock’s room, taking out the sheets Lestrade had given him to read them over. 

Sherlock took his time, but when he walked down the corridor, he looked somewhat baffled.

“What?” John asked.

“You weren’t in your room.”

“I want to see yours.”

“It’s not different from yours.”

“It is, because I haven’t made love to you in it, yet,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he pulled out his key card. “How do you know my room number? Oh, Lestrade told you. I should have known.”

“Couldn’t you just pretend that my instinct brought me here?”

Sherlock laughed out loud and quickly turned to make sure that they were alone before he stepped closer and kissed him. 

Then he unlocked the door and held it open for John. Unsurprisingly to John, Sherlock's things were scattered around the room. He had spread out his clothes across the small desk and the single chair in front of it while the bed looked pristine.

“Lestrade said both of our rooms should look like they were being slept in.”

Sherlock walked over to the bed and pushed at the duvet a bit. “There.”

John giggled and stepped close, pushing him hard with both hands. With a surprised grunt Sherlock dropped back on the bed and John climbed on top of him. 

“The door isn’t locked.”

“Oh, we’re not having sex.”

“Oh, right, you’re just sitting on me on my bed with that look on your face.”

“What look?” John asked, leaning down to bring his lips close to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he tried to scowl at John, but his attempt at irritation failed spectacularly when John smiled widely and pushed his hands into Sherlock’s hair. “What look?” he asked again. 

Sherlock inhaled once, twice and yet again before he spoke. “That look that goes right here,” he slipped his hand between their bodies and pressed it against his groin. 

“I have a look that can make you hard?” John asked, delighted with Sherlock’s honesty. No one he’d ever been with had, albeit grudgingly, admitted in detail what turned them on. He had not been lying when he had admitted to Sherlock that he had been much more confident in himself before the accident, but Sherlock gave him an entirely different kind of confidence. He wasn’t unafraid and he wasn’t in it just to see if he could get someone into bed with him. Instead he wanted Sherlock to want him as much as he wanted Sherlock. And whenever he realised that he succeeded, he felt more powerful than he could have ever imagined. 

“What are you thinking?” Sherlock asked, his hand pressing up against John’s very own erection. 

“That we should lock the door after all,” John said before kissing Sherlock passionately. 

John knew they would probably not be interrupted, but the hotel staff might come to check up on the minibar or whatever else they decided needed checking on, so they should at least put out the 'do not disturb' sign. And yet, John found it impossible to move away from Sherlock, now that his hand was squeezing him rhythmically through his suit. 

“I have to go and get changed,” John finally murmured against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock made a frustrated noise. 

“You don't need to change. I know I haven’t won the race yet, but …”

“No.”

“I’m not asking you to make love to me in your suit I just … can I at least look at you properly?”

“You had all afternoon to look at me properly.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Sherlock protested and pushed at John until he rolled off of him. “There were people around.”

John watched him as his eyes slowly moved from his face downwards. Sherlock sucked his lower lip into his mouth and John felt his skin tingle with the intensity of his look, even though he was still entirely covered in his fireproofs and, from his waist down, his suit. 

“Sherlock?” John interrupted him when he was about to reach out for his middle again. “I have to go and get changed. I need to go over the files again and do Aki’s exercises before I can get naked with you.”

“Did you consider my state of undress while you perform these activities?”

“No, what? Why?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, you said earlier that I was, and I quote, meddling with your priorities in a naked way.” 

John giggled and sat up, kissing him again. “You’re meddling with my priorities in a dressed way, too, it seems,” he admitted and Sherlock smirked, making John kiss him again, harder this time. 

“God,” John forced himself to pull away eventually, frustrated with how much he wanted to continue kissing Sherlock. “I’ll be back in a few. Don’t go anywhere.”

Sherlock pouted and simply lay back on the bed when John made his way to the door. “Do you want anything?” John asked, “Tea? Chocolate? Dinner?”

“You, in the shower,” Sherlock said after a short pause and John shook his head laughing, finding that his legs moved entirely without his consent and carried him back to Sherlock. 

“I love you,” he whispered before he kissed him quickly. 

Sherlock looked flustered when he moved away and John’s heart skipped a beat. He left the room smiling widely, his clothes and hair in a mess, hoping that he wouldn’t run into anyone. 

He whistled a low tune when he skipped down the stairs to the first floor and almost stumbled into Carmen who walked around the corner in the same moment that he was about to. “Oy, sorry,” he apologised with a grin and made room for her to pass.

Carmen’s left eyebrow rose together with the corners of her mouth when she saw what a state John was in. 

“Rough evening?” she asked before she turned around to walk upstairs with a wide grin.

“Have a good night, Carmen,” John called after her in lieu of trying to explain himself.

“You, too, John Watson,” Carmen retorted from almost a floor above him. 

He chuckled when he entered his room, pulling off his fireproofs and slipping into jeans and a t-shirt without bothering with underwear. Then he ordered dinner for himself and for Sherlock, each to their own rooms and sat down on his bed, reading through Lestrade’s stats as he waited for the food to arrive. When it did, he waited for another ten minutes before he grabbed his toothbrush and his phone, put out the do not disturb sign and carried his dinner and his files upstairs. 

Sherlock opened the door quickly and pulled him inside. His door knob was already adorned with a sign, and he locked the door behind John. Sherlock had also changed, but he was now simply wearing his bathrobe. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he said, pointing at his untouched plate of steak, potatoes and vegetables. “It’s very German.”

John laughed and put his plate next to Sherlock’s before he picked up the things Sherlock had placed on the solitary chair and dropped them on the bed before he sat down and pulled his plate close, placing the files next to his plate. 

Sherlock watched him, his brows knitted. “What are you doing?”

“Are you going to eat?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“See, I thought as much, so I’ll use your chair while you make up your mind. I also need to read these, so please be quiet.”

“You are not serious.” A statement, not a question.

“Well, depends,” John countered and stabbed a small potato with his fork. 

“On what?”

“On whether you can convince me to give up the chair.” He popped the potato into his mouth and leaned down to study his papers. 

Sherlock stood silently and unmoving in the middle of the room for long enough to make John uncomfortable. When John turned around to see whether he was upset, he opened his bathrobe and dropped it where he stood before he climbed on the bed and lay down, legs spread, one hand resting on his soft cock. 

John watched him, quietly delighted with Sherlock’s strategy, but still convinced that he wouldn’t touch Sherlock before he had finished his work. “You should eat,” he said, watching as Sherlock slowly pulled himself into hardness. 

For several minutes John watched Sherlock stroke himself, his cheeks growing flushed, his hand moving faster eventually. “I don’t want you to come, yet,” John said quietly. “But keep going.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened while John finally turned his back and he began eating again. John could hear it when Sherlock stopped moving. “I said, keep going.”

Sherlock made a small frustrated noise and continued, much to John’s delight. He couldn’t concentrate on the food or his reading, but he pretended for long enough to know that Sherlock was getting close. 

“Don’t come,” he said, only half turning to check whether Sherlock would stop moving but not properly looking. 

“You haven’t read a single word,” Sherlock complained. “You could just as well come over here and help me.”

“You don’t need any help, you’re almost there.”

Sherlock dropped his hand and glowered at him. “And you are wasting time.”

John grinned and turned around. “No, I’m training you.”

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows. “You’re not.”

“Patience.”

“You know that patience has nothing to do with what you are doing.”

“Fine. I’m training myself, then.”

Sherlock sat up properly. “It’s ten o’clock, you haven’t done your exercises nor have you read your homework nor have you made love to me.”

“But I’ve listened to you jerk off for ten minutes,” he grinned.

“Fine,” Sherlock lay down and took hold of himself again. “I’ll just finish then.”

“No!”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then do something,” Sherlock said petulantly. 

“If I touch you I won’t be able to stop,” John admitted. “And I won’t get anything done.”

Sherlock huffed. “You do realise that you are just making it worse for yourself.”

“I could go for another ten minutes of listening to you.”

“Well, I can’t,” Sherlock said drily and John had to smile. 

“What do we do?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said, sitting up again. “But you can’t refuse.”

“Refuse what?”

“My solution to your … our problem.”

“Yours, too?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock murmured. “Or do you think I’m doing this for your entertainment?”

“Frankly, yes,” John grinned and Sherlock got up and pulled John to his feet. 

“First of all,” he started to undress John, humming his approval when he pushed down his jeans and found him not only hard but also naked under the denim. He swatted at John’s hand when he reached out to touch him and instead half guided, half pushed him into the small bathroom. “Second of all,” Sherlock said gravely and turned on the water in the shower before nudging John to take the first step inside before he followed him and closed the glass door to the cubicle. “Third of all,” he smiled against John’s lips when he pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him. 

“Your point being?” John asked and squeezed Sherlock’s arse, making him grunt. 

“There wasn’t really a point. I just wanted you in the shower,” he admitted after catching his breath.

John chuckled and moved his hips back to slip a hand between their bodies. “Soap,” he murmured and Sherlock switched off the water before he reached out to squeeze a dollop of soap from the container attached to the wall next to the tap and smeared it against John’s palm. 

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock and, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock’s legs gave out immediately. His arms tightened around John’s back and he gasped against his neck. “You really are close,” he whispered against Sherlock’s cheek.

“I told you I couldn’t go another ten minutes.”

John kissed him and started stroking him, firmly but gently, feeling him come undone between under his fingers within seconds.

Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s back, making him wince in pain and pleasure. He stroked him carefully until Sherlock grunted and pushed his hands away but immediately wrapped his arms around John again and simply held on for a long time. 

John used his clean hand to gently run his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back while his other hand rested loosely on his hip. “Is that what you meant with wasted time?” John asked finally and Sherlock inhaled deeply and squeezed harder. 

“Yes. We could have done this for much longer if you hadn’t just sat there.”

“How much longer?” John asked and pressed his hip forward as to remind Sherlock of his own state of arousal which both had ignored for the better part of the last ten minutes.

Sherlock pulled back, looking entirely content before a whimsical grin replaced his blissful expression. 

“Long.”

John huffed. “Is that my punishment, then?”

“Oh, you’re calling this punishment?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his smile playful. John felt his heart beat faster. He adored this version of Sherlock. 

“Why, what would you consider punishment?” 

“Well, that depends on the severity of the offense.”

“Do I get a drive-through penalty?” John asked, his fingers curling around Sherlock’s soft cock. 

Sherlock chuckled. “I was rather thinking you get disqualified from the race. You can do the warm up laps, but you don’t get to finish.”

John’s cock twitched against Sherlock’s leg and John cursed his body’s betrayal while Sherlock chuckled. “Oh, you like that?” He had broken character and was genuinely excited about John’s physical reaction, but he caught himself again and wrapped his own hand around John. “What do you think?”

John squirmed. “I think if you keep talking I’m going to come no matter what.”

Sherlock’s left eye brow shot up. “So a drive through penalty after all, for driving too fast when you shouldn’t?”

“My pit stop’s been lasting for half an hour, so I think I deserve some fuel.”

Sherlock giggled and kissed John, finally stroking him properly. He pulled back to look at him when he felt John come, one arm wrapped around his back to support him while the other stroked him to completion. 

John tried to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t. He let the pleasure of the moment rush through him and carry him away, mindful only of not being too loud.

When he opened his eyes again he found Sherlock watching him closely. He smiled at him and Sherlock’s face lit up. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, John pulled him back into his arms and they stood motionless, exhausted and high on endorphins until the ring tone of John’s phone shocked then both out of their blissed-out state. “Shit,” John pulled away and looked down on himself. They were both sticky with come and soap, the water having dried on their skin long ago. 

Sherlock opened the shower cabin door, picked up a towel and wiped his hands before he threw it at John and went to get John’s phone. John tried to clean his hands as well as he could before he answered the call. “Lestrade,” he said, hoping that the strange sound of the shower cabin within the small bathroom wouldn’t be too obvious over the phone. 

“Have you had a chance to look at the statistics?” 

“You said to compare notes tomorrow.”

“Well, yes, but I think you should have a look. We found an inconsistency.”

“In the cars?”

“Yes.”

“What is wrong?”

“Do you have the files in front of you?”

“No, I just … got into the shower.”

“Right, call me back as soon as you’re done.” Lestrade hung up and John frowned hard.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” 

Sherlock took the phone from John and returned it to the bedroom. Then he stepped into the cubicle again and turned on the water.

“There’s an inconsistency.”

“With the car.”

“Both of them?”

“How?”

“Can only be the motor,” John felt his heart in this throat. “I must have missed something …”

“John,” Sherlock took his face between his hands. “Nothing is wrong with the motor. An inconsistency could mean a lot of things, but the car is alright.”

John nodded, but he did not believe Sherlock. He felt cold all of the sudden, despite the heat of the water and the general warmth of the room. 

Sherlock watched him closely and John tried to hold on to that but he felt himself slipping away, his sight narrowing with the edges going dark, his heart rate taking up speed, his breath quickening. 

With a swift move, Sherlock turned them around so that John stood in the direct line of the falling water and switched it to cold. The shock of the cold water made John yelp, but it also brought him back. For a moment he just stood there, letting the cold water root him to the spot.

“John, he would have said if it was urgent.” Sherlock spoke quietly. 

John’s voice broke at his first attempt to answer, but he cleared his throat and tried again. “He said to call him back as soon as I was done.”

“Exactly. If it was life altering, he would have told you to drop everything and to see him in the garage immediately. He thought you were simply taking a shower after a long day. He doesn’t know what happened before. What state you are in and how badly you need this shower,” he smiled. “He also knows better than to withhold negative information from you, because he knows how you would react.”

John forced himself to exhale slowly, shivering as the cold water still ran down his body. “You’re probably right,” he said and turned around to return the water to a less shocking temperature. Then he pulled Sherlock into his arms again and pressed his face against his neck. “Thank you.”

Sherlock gently massaged soap into John’s hair and began spreading it out across John’s back and arse, finally slipping one hand between their bodies to wash away the traces of their orgasms. He tipped John’s head back, shielding his face from the water while his other hand washed the soap out of his hair again. John sighed at Sherlock’s touch, finding that it helped immensely to simply concentrate on his sure and gentle hands that still occasionally explored carefully, but mostly touched him with the full knowledge of how it made him feel. He shuddered when Sherlock gently rubbed his nipples and gasped when he squeezed his arse. 

“Alright,” Sherlock finally murmured against John’s lips. “I think we’re clean.”

“You don't think it's bad news.”

“I’m quite sure it’s not bad news.” 

John nodded and kissed him quickly. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

John stepped out of the shower and plucked a towel from the pile on a shelf, quickly drying himself before he picked up Sherlock’s bathrobe from where it still lay on the floor and put it on. Then he picked up his phone, staring at it for a moment.

“John?” Sherlock squeezed his arm through the thick layer of cotton. “It is absolutely understandable why you reacted the way you did. It’s not a relapse. You’ve come so far already, don’t let this upset you.”

John inhaled deeply. Then, keeping eye contact with Sherlock, he dialled Lestrade’s number.


	79. Chapter Seventy-Nine

“John? Are you alright?” Lestrade sounded worried and John sat down on the bed.

“Why?”

“I realise that I should have given you more information. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine now,” John said quietly, “what’s wrong with the motor?”

“How do you know it’s the motor?”

“So something _is_ wrong with the motor?” He clenched and unclenched his left hand. 

“No, nothing’s wrong, but I think I know how we can get the cars through the race despite the heat. Well, at least Sherlock’s, because he’s not yet used to driving the car in the way Jenson is.”

“Hold on a second,” John got up and picked up the folder, flipping through the pages until he found the table with the engine stats. Then he put Lestrade on speaker and placed the phone on the small desk.

“We’ve been thinking about ventilation and the airbox, downforce and the tyres, but everything we considered, we considered from the point of view of your engine and gear box.”

"So, what are you saying? I made a mistake? Forgot something?" John chewed on his lip, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. 

Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder to be able to read, too, his hand resting against John's back. 

“Remember how we didn’t do particularly well in Bahrain for the same reason we are now struggling?”

“Heat,” John shrugged. “We all struggled.”

“You want to take out the MGU-K,” Sherlock suggested out of the blue.

“We can’t exchange the elements of the engine during the season,” John argued, looking up at Sherlock, who looked like he enjoyed Lestrade's idea.

“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t be exchanging them. We’d just switch one off.” Lestrade explained. “There’s nothing in the regulations about using four instead of five elements.”

John stared at the statistics. Last winter, when the new turbo engines had been introduced, they had tested engines with different sets of elements, finding that the motor generator unit-kinetic had produced a lot more heat than any other of the engine elements. It had been helpful in some of the races where the car had run smoothly and had been much more powerful, but whenever there had been heat, both Jenson and Kevin had struggled. Too often the motor had simply failed during the season and John remembered sitting in front of his computer, praying for a change in race regulations. 

“Could you do it?” Lestrade asked and Sherlock began pacing. 

“I’d have to be very gentle on the brakes.”

John watched him, imagining the implications. With the MGU-K switched off a lot of energy would go unused, but it would reduce the heat quite a lot. If Sherlock used lower gears instead of the brakes, though, the gear box would overheat instead and they’d have achieved nothing. 

“I think you’re good enough, Sherlock,” Lestrade finally spoke. “John, what do you think?”

“Can I go through the stats first and think this through?”

“Of course, but I want your gut reaction.”

“We’re making the car weaker in order to keep it from overheating.”

“Yes.”

“And it wouldn’t even matter if it rained, because the motor and the gearbox would be cooler anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And we’d lose about 6 seconds per lap.”

“Under normal circumstances, yes.”

“And Sherlock is able to get those 6 seconds back.”

“I believe so.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John expectantly. 

“Well, it could work,” John agreed and Sherlock smiled widely.

“Good,” Lestrade sounded relieved. “Now get to work.”

John huffed. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And John? I apologise if I caused you any unnecessary concern.”

“Oh, I am still concerned,” John smiled. “But thank you.”

“Good night then.”

“Night,” John hung up the phone and leaned back, looking at Sherlock for a long moment before he turned away and picked up his plate. 

“I thought you were going to read the files.”

“I need to eat first.”

Sherlock nodded and finally picked up his own food, sitting down on the bed to eat. John stared at his plate, slowly eating the long-cold food, wondering if he was ready to risk it all. If the engine overheated there would be nothing Sherlock could do. But if they did not use the energy from the brakes to recharge the battery, they would need more fuel and that would cost them more time during the pit stops. 

He finished his dinner with his thoughts still flitting back and forth between the different options they had, and when he pushed away the plate and picked up the folder, he felt strangely calm. He had been nervous and he had been skirting a proper panic attack all day and if it hadn’t been for Sherlock he would be in a much worse state than he was now – calm enough to properly consider what to do about their problem. 

“Sherlock?” he asked and turned around, finding him sitting on the bed, eyes fixed on John while his hands were pressed together, the tips of his index finger and thumb resting against his lips and chin. He looked entirely calm. 

“Are you praying? Do you think we’re in that much trouble?” John asked and Sherlock’s eyes grew soft. 

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh, sorry, I did not want to interrupt you. It’s just, I never really saw you just … sitting there without your phone or computer.”

Sherlock smiled. “I have a lot of data stored in my mind.”

“Your log book, yes,” John smiled. 

“What is it?” Sherlock finally asked, leaning forward a bit, his focus entirely on John now.

“I just want to know where you stand in all of this?”

“You don’t like the idea of cheating.”

“Well, it’s not technically cheating, but for the last race we were walking that line already …”

“And you want the race to be fair.”

“Yes. I know it’s naïve, because everyone has tricks up their sleeve, but it’s just … I like the _idea_ of seeing if the motor can get through the race without the MGU-K, but I would have liked to test it before we make that decision. And I would very much like to see if you could win the race even if all the odds were against it.”

Sherlock looked at John for a long, breathless moment before he nodded. “You believe I could do it without the MGU-K, but you are not sure I could do it with the motor entirely intact.”

John squirmed at how Sherlock managed to break his thoughts down to a simple statement, but then he nodded.

Sherlock leaned back, a half smile tugging at his lips. 

“I know it might mean that you won’t win or that you have to retire from the race,” John tried to explain, but he felt that Sherlock had understood him perfectly. “But at least you’d be doing it properly.”

“Play by the book.”

John nodded. 

“Fine.” 

“You don’t need to make a decision now,” John felt his ears go pink.

“Oh, I’ll do it. I don’t need time to think it through.”

“Even if you don’t do as well as you could otherwise?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Even if you drop out because the car breaks down?”

Sherlock nodded, entirely serious. “Why aren’t you worried anymore?” he asked after another heavy silence. 

John stood up, opened the window and dropped the bathrobe on the floor before he took the folder and joined Sherlock on the bed. Sherlock pushed his own clothes, which were still piled up on the bed where John had put them earlier to make room on the chair, to the ground. Then he pulled John into his arms. 

“You were right,” John finally answered. “There wasn’t a problem and Lestrade knew I might overreact.”

“That’s not why you’re not worried anymore.”

John smiled and kissed his jaw. “I was very skeptical today, but now I just feel that we’re making the right decision. So it doesn’t seem like I was being unreasonable, but that I am still able to make informed decisions.”

“You are aware that your incentive plays a minor role in my decision as well?” Sherlock grinned and John flicked a finger across Sherlock’s left nipple, making him grunt. 

“Good thing I stopped you then, earlier.”

Sherlock’s arm tightened around him and John felt white heat settling in his groin.

“Right. I’m going to read now. Please try not to be too distracting.”

“Oh, like I could control what you decide turns you on at any given moment,” Sherlock chuckled. 

John kissed him quickly and then rested the file against Sherlock’s chest, moving down so he could comfortably lie in his arms and read. Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and carted his hand through his hair and for a moment John was busy blinking away sudden tears before he could focus on the charts again. 

It took him an hour to read through the entire file and it was midnight before he got up again to stretch. Sherlock looked tired, but he insisted on helping John with his exercises. John felt the ache of the previous day’s exercises in his bones. He had been distracted all day, but now that he repeated some of the exercises, his body remembered them painfully. 

The room was almost too small, especially when Sherlock decided that John would only be able to get the exercises precisely right if he placed his hands on his body to gently guide and push and hold, all of which which quickly extended to gentle teasing. Finally, his help was reduced to a very gentle nipping at John’s erection while John was trying to balance on one arm and one foot again. 

When Sherlock wrapped his hand around him, John gave up and collapsed on the floor, mindful to miss Sherlock’s head. They both giggled.

“Where are we going to sleep?” John asked. 

“Well, I’m not sure I want to leave this room at the moment.”

“And you have the lube in your bag.”

“Fair point.”

“Is it too late?”

“How well can you work on five hours of sleep?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how well I sleep.”

Sherlock grinned. “Are you tired?”

“Exhausted, but not really tired.”

“Exhausted in a way that you could imagine staying up for a little longer?” Sherlock tugged at his erection again. 

John chuckled and got up. “Give me a moment and I’ll be all yours.”

“That sounds promising,” Sherlock smiled and sat up, leaning against the bed as he watched John pick up the bathrobe and tip toe out of the room. 

John quickly made his way to his own room, used the bathroom, washed his face and decided not to shave. If he found the time tomorrow, he would, but it was not a priority at the moment, or had been one since he had met Sherlock, really. Stubble had been the norm. 

Grinning, he plucked shorts and a t-shirt from his bag and made his way upstairs again. 

Sherlock had closed the window and drawn the blinds, and, much to John’s amusement, had placed the lube, condoms and his used towel in the middle of the bed. 

“You sure you want to do this?” John asked and Sherlock cocked his head, pushed out his left hip and placed his hand on it and looked at him in such a judging manner that John burst out laughing. 

“Shh,” Sherlock said disapprovingly, his eyebrows knitted, but his eyes bright with laughter. 

“Sorry,” John cleared his throat and walked up to Sherlock. “I just want to make sure that you really want to.”

“I do, but thank you. And you? Do you feel okay?”

“I’ll manage. On the bed, then,” John smiled and gave Sherlock’s arse a squeeze when he turned and climbed on the bed. “Lie down on your back,” John instructed and Sherlock did, fluffing up a pillow before placing it under his head to be able to see better. 

“This is a bit strange,” John noted when he placed the bathrobe on the back of the chair and his shirt and pants on the desk.

“What is?” 

“This. Me. Just walking in here, about to have sex with you without … I don’t know. It’s so sober, somehow, but also a bit indecent.” Usually he had been very turned on and desperate to be as close as possible to Sherlock before sex. And now he felt that yes, sex was an option, but he could have just as well simply gone to bed and slept in his arms or stayed awake and talked for a while. He wondered whether that was a good or a bad sign. 

“You mean apart from what happened in this room before you left?”

“Well, yes. But the work and the stretching and then leaving you and getting ready for bed without you. It’s just strange.”

“Come here, then?” Sherlock asked and petted the bed next to him. He picked up the lube and the box of condoms and put them on the night stand before pushing the towel towards the edge of the bed. John climbed onto the bed and Sherlock immediately pulled him down on top of him and kissed him deeply. Within a minute they were both fighting for dominance, laughing against each other’s lips with every gentle bite and trapped lower lip. 

John was amazed how quickly his entire being became solely focused on touching Sherlock as much as possible. His hands couldn’t stay in one place for long and even though he would have loved to take hold of them both and stroke them, he found that he needed to feel Sherlock’s thighs as well as his shoulders and chest against his palms, and his hands stroked up and down his hips, settling in the small of his back to pull his hips up and trap their erections between their bellies. 

They were both breathing heavily, gasping each other’s names when they weren’t busy kissing each other. 

Sherlock’s fingers slowly moved down John’s back until he placed them on his arse and squeezed and pulled him up a bit before he pushed him down again, making both of them grunt. 

When Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s hips and began moving rhythmically, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest and pushed himself up. “Stop,” he begged quietly. 

“Sufficiently warmed up?” Sherlock asked with a lopsided grin and John lowered his head to kiss him again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then it’s your turn.”

John smiled and reached for the lube, giggling and squirming when Sherlock drew his index finger along his chest and flank. 

He meant to get back at Sherlock for tickling by squeezing the lube straight from the bottle onto his cock, but the room temperature was high enough for it not to make a difference. Sherlock, who had spread his legs obediently, giggled at John’s visible disappointment. 

John tried to look annoyed, but how could he, really, when Sherlock offered himself to him so freely and with so much joy? “I’m going to cry again, just to warn you,” John said, biting his lip and trying to concentrate on slicking Sherlock up. He stroked him a couple of times, his hand gliding along easily, before he squeezed more lube onto his own hand and reached lower, gently massaging his testicles before moving lower yet, probing and rubbing with one finger before pushing in just beyond the first knuckle. 

Sherlock grunted, but nodded encouragingly, so John pushed in deeper. After a long exhale, John could feel him relax. He added another finger, careful not to hurt Sherlock, and spent a good five minutes stroking and stretching him before Sherlock grabbed his wrist and drove his two fingers in as deeply as they would go. 

“Pushy,” John said drily and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him in mock irritation. 

His expression changed very quickly when John bent his fingers and pulled back a little only to push in again. He repeated this a few times until Sherlock was blinking rapidly, trying hard to breathe evenly and forcing his hands to rest seemingly relaxed against his thighs. John could see how much he wanted to hold on to something and how tense his whole body was above his waist. He was fairly relaxed around his fingers now, though, and John pulled out all the way only to push in a third with the other two. 

“John?” Sherlock asked after another minute of careful stretching. “Please?”

“Please what?”

Sherlock flipped him off and John giggled. “Well then.” He wiped his hand on the towel and picked up the box of condoms. “You’re getting one, too, because we’re not going to make this stay more awkward than it has to be.”

“I could just be having a lot of positive thoughts all on my own.”

“Right,” John grinned. “But no. I don’t want to have to think about making sure you don’t come all over the bed and possibly the wall and the night stand and god knows what, so …”

Sherlock’s eyes grew very wide and he looked behind him, just to see how far away the wall was from where he lay. 

John giggled and opened a sachet, quickly rolling one condom down Sherlock’s length before stroking him a few times, making him gasp. “This feels strange,” he murmured and John realised that this was possibly the first time in his life that Sherlock wore a condom. 

“Bad?”

“No, just, different.”

“Sorry, I should have taken more time for you to get used to …”

“No, John, shut up and get in me.”

“Oh,” John chuckled. “Right.” Once more he marvelled at how at ease he felt with Sherlock like this and how happy he was when Sherlock was unguarded and open with him. How often he laughed and smiled when he had been so depressed for so long. 

He wiped his hands on the towel again, watching Sherlock through tears, and put a condom on himself before he slicked himself up with lube, making sure that Sherlock was as ready as he could be before he moved closer. Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and John kissed his calves. He placed one hand next to Sherlock’s shoulder and used the other to guide himself inside. 

For a few seconds, Sherlock tensed up again and John pulled back, using his thumb to get him used to the feeling of someone being inside of him again before he tried again. This time, Sherlock was in no position to control John’s speed, so he took all the time in the world to let himself sink into the heat of Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John’s and he kept them open even though John could tell he was struggling. When he moved, Sherlock’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t utter a sound. 

John tried to be quiet, but it was almost impossible. Putting his weight on both of his arms he established a rhythm that allowed him to move smoothly and relatively slowly and with every thrust a small moan fought its way out of his chest. 

He could see the knuckles of Sherlock’s fingers go white as he tightened the grip on his own legs and John changed their position slightly so Sherlock could wrap them around John's hips and touch himself, which he immediately did, still keeping his eyes trained on John. 

It did not take long for John to feel entirely breathless, driven to distraction by the notion that he was making love to Sherlock, and he began moving faster, rushing towards his own orgasm. 

“Wait, don’t,” Sherlock begged and let go of himself. “Please don’t come yet.” He sounded desperate for John to continue making love to him, but not because he was close. 

John forced himself to slow down and eventually stopped moving entirely, buried deep inside of Sherlock. “Sorry,” he said quietly, trying to catch his breath. 

“No, don’t be sorry,” Sherlock shook his head, sweat causing strands of his hair to stick to his temples and forehead. “I just. I want this to last longer.”

John smiled widely and leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back and held him tightly, making it harder for John to move, but also changing the angle slightly. Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and gasped loudly when John managed to pull back and drive in again. 

“Oh, you like that?” John chuckled and kissed the corner of his mouth. Sherlock tried to kiss him, but again and again he stopped moving, stopped breathing, too, which would have worried John if it wasn’t for the deep inhale after each short break. John moved quicker, feeling Sherlock’s erection twitching against his stomach and his hands clinging desperately to his back. 

He was waiting for Sherlock to ask him to stop again, but he seemed beyond that now. John pushed one hand into Sherlock’s hair and held him in place, kissing him messily, whimpering against his lips every time Sherlock’s control slipped. 

Finally, he pulled back a bit to be able to watch his face. He looked utterly wrecked. His hair was shining with sweat, his lips, cheeks and neck all flushed, giving him a feverish look. 

When he opened his eyes his ecstatic expression pushed John over the edge. He had wanted to warn him, ask for permission, but Sherlock looked so blissed out that there was no doubt that he was beyond caring. 

John stilled, buried inside of Sherlock, his entire being reduced to rippling shocks of pleasure, his breath first trapped in his lungs, then pushed out in grunts with every jolt of electricity that ran through him. 

“Fucking hell,” John finally gasped when he tried to pull out but simply caused his body to cramp again in aftershocks. Eventually he managed and although he could barely hold himself up he moved down Sherlock’s body and sucked him into his mouth. 

Sherlock arched up, his hands tugging at the sheet underneath him before one hand flew up and settled on the hand John was using to guide him into his mouth. “Please,” Sherlock pushed John’s hand away and opened his legs and John slipped three fingers in again. 

He barely had time to establish a rhythm when Sherlock arched up again, making him choke and pull back. With watering eyes John watched him come, pulsing against the tips of his fingers, the muscles of his stomach so tight his veins stood out. 

John swallowed hard, moving his hand to press against Sherlock’s stomach, feeling aftershocks run through him. 

For a long moment, John simply sat back on his heels, watching Sherlock come down from his orgasm, but then he took the towel and wiped his fingers. He gently pushed Sherlock’s legs apart and lifted one leg until Sherlock’s foot rested against his chest, and wiped the lube away before he pulled his own and then Sherlock’s condom off, cleaning them both up as best as he could with the damp towel. 

His legs were weak when he walked into the bathroom, where he disposed of the condoms, dropped the towel into the shower cubicle, and washed his hands. He quickly brushed his teeth before he wet another towel, filled two glasses with cold water and carried it all into the bedroom. 

Sherlock still lay in the middle of the bed, entirely boneless. John chuckled and leaned over the bed, kissing him slowly and gently, until Sherlock reached out for him and pulled him onto the bed. John carefully wiped Sherlock’s face, rubbing the towel across his damp hair and then moved down, wiping the sweat off his body before he did the same to himself. 

“Drink something,” he said quietly and handed Sherlock a glass of water. While Sherlock sat up against the head rest, John got up, switched off the light and opened the blinds and then the window, looking outside into the calm of the night while he spread out the towel to dry on the window sill. It was still warm, but a breeze cooled his body and gooseflesh rose on his skin. 

“John, come to bed?” Sherlock finally asked and John left the window wide open to let in more air. 

It was too warm to sleep wrapped up in each other’s arms, but even though they fell asleep shoulder to shoulder and on top of the blanket, John woke up after a few hours to find that Sherlock had effectively draped himself entirely around John. He sighed and closed his eyes against the approaching light of dawn, safe in the knowledge that if Sherlock did not win the race on Sunday he would have a very effective way of making him happy nevertheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to read up on the specifics of the new engine units in F1, and the MGU-K, you can do that here: tinyurl.com/zrjf9z3 (I wanted to use old school cars and motors initially, but these engines fit nicely with the issue of heat and too powerful cars (thanks, John :p). If you don't know anything about the engines in F1, just know that they are very complex and very powerful and generate a lot of heat, as do pretty much all other functions in the car (gear changes, brakes etc). In the early 2000s and before, a lot of cars would have engine failures because they would overheat. So it's an old issue made relevant again (after being sort of okay for a decade) by the new engines.


	80. Chapter Eighty

It was the too bright sunshine and the unusual heat of the morning that woke John up just moments before his alarm went off. When it did, he fumbled for his phone and switched it off only to scramble for Sherlock’s phone a moment later to switch off that alarm as well. With a sigh he lay back down only to have Sherlock wrap himself around him again with a contented sigh. 

The sun shone directly through the window, too high already to only be bright and John wondered whether any delicate body parts might have gotten sunburnt. He turned around in Sherlock's arms, hiding his face from the light. 

“Morning,” Sherlock murmured against his hair.

“Hmm,” John answered and wrapped one arm around him. 

“We need to get up,” Sherlock remarked, only inspiring John’s arm to move lower. “John!” he said disapprovingly when John squeezed one buttock and then moved on to the other. 

Sherlock reached around and plucked John's hand from his arse. John moved back a bit and looked up at him. “Sorry,” he whispered, smiling. “I can’t help it.”

“Look at what you’ve done,” Sherlock said accusingly and reached between their bodies, finding them both hard. 

“Shower?” John suggested, already peeling himself out of their embrace and padding into the bathroom. He fished the soiled towel out of it and stepped inside. The water was lukewarm, but it felt incredibly good against his heated skin, and even better when Sherlock stepped into the shower and embraced him from behind. 

They were quick about getting each other off and quicker about washing, and very slow about kissing good bye before John took his things and made for his own room in Sherlock’s bathrobe. He did not come across anyone, but Carmen winked at him when he came down for breakfast, making him wonder whether she was placed in the room next to Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock showed up just when John finished his coffee. He had shaved and looked alert and ready to tackle the day, but he winced when he sat down, and met John’s eyes just after and John had to grin, earning a disapproving look from Sherlock which was entirely eradicated by the unbidden smile that followed. 

Jenson came down just when John was about to leave the room. “Did Lestrade call you about the engine?”

“Yes, I’m about to talk things through with him.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that we should all make that decision together, but I do have a preference.”

Jenson looked at him closely. “You don’t want to do it?”

John pursed his lips and then nodded. 

“Neither do I. What does Sherlock think?”

John exhaled slowly. “I guess we all agree.”

Jenson looked over John’s shoulder to watch Sherlock. “Did you talk him around?”

“Maybe?” John grinned. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you at the circuit.”

“Yepp. See you.”

John found Anderson waiting for a car and joined him and Carmen for the ride. He knew Anderson had also been talked to, but neither of them mentioned it until they entered the garage. 

Lestrade looked relaxed for the first time in days, even though John was sure he hadn’t slept much. 

“I scheduled a meeting for 10. Until then I want you to keep an eye on the cars and compare notes. The boys have some press meetings scheduled for later and the group photo has been moved forward to today. John, I want you to supervise the pit stop practice. I want everyone to know exactly what they are doing and I want their hands to work faster than their minds, understood?

John nodded, feeling daunted by the responsibility his boss heaved on him, but at the same time he noticed that he was being treated according to his job description. He was being talked to like he had been before the accident, when Lestrade would hand out tasks and everyone would rush to fulfill them immediately, without anyone paying a mind to treat John differently from anyone else. 

“Anderson? I want you to go through the spare parts and the sub cars and see that everything is in perfect condition by the time we do the photo. We’re running tomorrow morning, after Ferrari, so the track will not be entirely dirty. We should save rubber, though. So John, if you have it in you to tell Sherlock to please refrain from painting the track black, I would be grateful.”

John grinned and shook his head when Anderson gave him a confused look. He obviously hadn’t noticed his little stunt in Silverstone, despite the team's radio conversation.

“Chop chop,” Lestrade said and moved on to make sure everyone was in position. By 10 a.m. John had already watched and given extensive feedback on ten back to back tyre changes and five whole run-throughs of pit stops including the nose change, air-vent cleaning, refuelling and tyre changes, and sweat was running down his back when he unzipped his suit and took off his helmet and fire proofs. Everyone who was not in the garage was more or less in some state of undress and water bottles were passed around like liquor at a campfire. 

When Sherlock and Jenson arrived from the motor home, they seemed to be the only ones who weren’t yet melting in the sun. It would only get worse during the day, but at least the heat meant that John didn’t feel his shoulder at all. He finished his fourth water bottle of the day before he wiped his face, chancing a dirty look when he caught Sherlock watching. 

It was only when he turned his back for a moment that Sherlock stepped closer, and much too close for a casual chat. “John,” he cleared his throat. “You might want to put on a shirt.”

“Am I distracting you?” John asked, looking down on himself and only realising now that he didn’t feel self conscious about his scar anymore. He hadn’t really paid attention to anyone looking at him, or at the scar, which would always stand out angrily against his skin. But Sherlock’s words made him wonder whether Sherlock had perceived things differently. 

“Well, your back,” Sherlock scratched his chin and then looked at his fingernails. 

John’s eyes grew wide and he reached around to touch his own back, trying to feel if there were any perceivable traces on his skin. Sherlock looked embarrassed. “You didn’t feel it in the shower this morning?”

He shook his head and slowly backed away against the nearest wall. 

“Is it bad?”

Sherlock’s ears were pink, and although it could easily be blamed on the heat, John knew better. Sherlock made a face that told John nothing apart from the fact that he was also a tiny bit proud of what he had done. 

“You could have warned me! Go get me a shirt at least,” John chided and Sherlock jogged away. 

He draped the towel across his back and hoped that nobody else would have noticed or, if they had, that they would consider it to be work related. 

Sherlock was back fairly quickly and John pulled on the shirt without much ado and then playfully boxed Sherlock’s shoulder. “I did well, then?”

Sherlock gave John the most judgemental look he could muster without smiling and John laughed and turned away, walking back into the shade of the pits. 

Lestrade and Mike were conferring quietly in the back of the boxes. “Where are we meeting?” John asked and Lestrade nodded. “Motorhome. They promised us ice cream. I’ll be there in a moment.”

John found Sherlock and Jenson already there, and Anderson, Carmen, Josh and Luke followed him into the air-conditioned trailer. Everyone seemed immensely relieved to be out of the sun and when a caterer appeared carrying a large box with ice cream sandwiches everyone seemed to forget for a moment that they were supposed to be adults at work, so that when Lestrade and Mike arrived, drivers and mechanics were happily sucking melting ice cream off their fingers. 

Lestrade allowed them to finish and wash their hands before he went through the list of final adjustments. John felt nervous about the engine, but kept quiet, watching Sherlock’s unmoving form in the corner of his eyes. 

“You’ve seen what the weather is like, and it’s not supposed to change much over the next few days,” Lestrade finally adressed the elephant in the room. “We’ve considered all options which allow us to drive in this weather, and one of them was the termination of the MGU-K for the duration of the race. I asked our lead mechanics to sleep a night over this. So what do you think?”

Anderson cleared his throat and exchanged a telling glance with Jenson. “In theory, this is a brilliant idea, but we haven’t tested the car without the MGU-K. So we think that it’s an option, but not necessarily one we would want to use this time around.” Jenson nodded his consent.

Lestrade seemed a bit disappointed, but he nodded and wrote a short note on his notepad. “John?”

“I agree,” he simply said, hoping that everyone would find their reasoning understandable.

“Is it just the testing?”

“No,” John added, rubbing his hand across the back of his head. “I just don’t think we should do it. We’ve got strong cars, and I think if we can prove that we can come through a weekend like this, we'll already be much further advanced in our testing than we would be otherwise.”

“Statistically our chances would be higher.”

“Yes, maybe, but we have no experience with cutting down the engine. And I think right now we should see the heat as a challenge from which we can learn.”

“Sherlock, what do you think?”

“I’m with John on this,” he nodded. “I like the car the way it is and I think we can do it without major changes. And if we alter the engine now, without any practical knowledge of what we can do without the MGU-K, we might play a hand that would be much more useful in the future once tests have been conducted. ”

“When you say ‘it’…?”

“Not retire.”

“That’s the objective? You make it through the race without retiring?”

Anderson looked confused but Jenson tried to hide his smile. 

Sherlock nodded. “I will obviously still try to win, but …”

Everyone laughed but Sherlock seemed entirely serious. He looked at John like he wasn’t sure what everyone found so amusing and John just smiled, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t feel the need to ask. 

“Good,” Lestrade nodded. “Thanks for your input. That’s homework then, for after the weekend.” He looked at Sherlock when he said that and Sherlock sat a little straighter, cocking his head as if he was waiting for a ‘but’. When nothing else came, his eyes moved to meet John’s and even though his face was carefully blank John knew what he was thinking. 

Sherlock would stay on, whether with a full contract as a driver or a sub or to test cars, Lestrade talked about him still being there like it was a done deal, and Sherlock knew that if he stayed, John would stay. It was like a safety net slowly spun around Sherlock, and John knew that chances were that he’d try to break out of it, being so used to fending for himself. But then again, he had been sticking with his brother despite the obviously unhealthy relationship they had, so there was hope that he might not feel too trapped with people who liked or at least appreciated him and his work. 

He moved his attention to Lestrade, who went into details about a possible rain race and ended his briefing up by stressing that everyone needed to be extra careful to be safe. The pit stops could easily turn into an inferno if any of the petrol was spilled on the hot ground, and no matter how hot it would get, everyone needed to be zipped up and fire proofed until all of the cars were back inside the pits and the machinery turned off. 

For some reason the thought of a fire did not scare John as much as a possible driving accident; probably because his own experience had been different. And yet, considering they would spend the hottest weekend in Germany he could remember, trying to keep the cars from falling apart, he felt fairly relaxed. 

Lestrade asked him and Anderson to stay on for a bit, but John knew he couldn’t let Sherlock go after their shared moment of understanding. “I need five minutes,” John explained and Lestrade nodded. “Five. And hand me one of those ice cream sandwiches.”

John chuckled and opened the cooler, throwing a sandwich in the general direction of his boss. Lestrade caught it and shook his head. “Always walking the edge, that Watson,” he grinned. 

John snagged another ice cream for himself before he followed Sherlock outside. 

“Did you want one?” He offered it to Sherlock once they had found a quiet spot in the shade close to the trailer.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, watching him as if he wasn’t quite sure why John had followed him outside. 

John peeled off the wrapper of the already melting ice cream sadwich and licked along the edge, catching the runny ice cream before it dropped to the ground. 

Sherlock looked even more confused. 

“Sorry,” John grinned, suddenly imagining Sherlock licking melting ice cream off his body. He could see in Sherlock’s eyes that his thoughts had moved in the same direction. 

“Why did you come out here?” Sherlock finally asked and John shrugged. 

“To make sure you’re okay.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Because sometimes you don’t trust in a future.”

Sherlock stared at him. 

“And Lestrade just made sure that there is one, for you, right here.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together but said nothing.

“How do feel about that?”

Sherlock continued doing nothing for long enough to worry John. 

“What are you thinking? Sherlock?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and stepped forward and grabbed John’s wrist and kissed the melted ice cream off his fingers. Then he took the sandwich and simply dropped it to the ground before he pulled John close and kissed him slowly and deeply. 

“I might still fail you all. I’m known for doing that all the time,” he finally said when he stepped back, leaving John flustered and slightly panicky that someone might have seen them. 

“I don’t think so,” John finally found his voice again. “You won’t. And he wouldn’t let you go, no matter what.”

Sherlock smiled and reached out to wipe at the corner of John’s mouth. 

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere,” he kissed John again, quickly, before he turned around and walked away. 

John pulled out his phone and called him. 

“What?”

“I would really like to ask you to come back.”

“Sorry, we’re all a bit busy here.”

“One final kiss?”

“You’ve been away for five minutes more than Lestrade gave you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, interesting.”

“What is?”

“You sound like an addict.”

“What do you mean?”

“Getting angry at not getting your drug?”

John growled and Sherlock chuckled. “If you find a place where we can be alone, I’ll kiss you again.”

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“Remember, there’s work to be done.”

John wanted to continue the call, he wanted to tell Sherlock what he wanted to do to him once they were back at the hotel but he knew that he would only make things harder for himself and he really did not want to distract Sherlock any more than he already had. “Sorry, and I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Bye, John,” Sherlock sounded sad to let him go but John knew that they needed to stop talking, otherwise he’d run after him just to steal another kiss and that wouldn’t help anyone. 

“Bye,” he finally sighed and hung up, making his way back to the motorhome. 

Lestrade looked pointedly at his watch and John apologised and quickly washed his hands and face. “Sorry, I had to make sure that he’s okay.”

Anderson nodded and flattened a sheet of paper in front of him. “Is he alright?”

John still found it strange how much Anderson’s opinion had changed concerning Sherlock and he wondered for the first time why he had always been so loyal to Sally. 

“Yes, he’s alright.” And that was that. For the first time since Sherlock had entered the picture, Anderson behaved entirely normal around John and an hour later they had gone through the lists of stats, decided what to pay attention to and how to take the weekend in terms of engine development. 

“Sherlock is testing the tyres, whether he wants to or not. The way he drives is special, so if he makes it through the weekend with the maximum number of tyres I think we can safely say we are good for the rest of the season,” Lestrade concluded their meeting. “Now, there’ll be some interviews later and the drivers and team photos, and I expect all of you to show your faces at the take off party tonight. Tongues have been wagging because Sherlock didn’t participate in any of the activities in Silverstone and we don’t want him to be seen as the new ice man, do we? Kimi still claims that.”

John chuckled. “I doubt I can make him do things that he has no interest in doing.” But he secretly enjoyed the thought of trying to convince him to go. Sherlock had changed his mind a few times about things John had thought he would never do or want, but John wouldn’t let his boss and his colleague know that.


	81. Chapter Eighty-One

They returned to the garage and John concentrated on the pit stop practice while he dreamed of taking a long cold shower before the party. Even though the pits were in the shade, the air was shimmering above the track. Strangely enough, everyone was in a good mood and John hoped that it would hold throughout the weekend. 

During lunch he texted Sherlock, asking how things were going and telling him to behave during the photo shoot. The drivers' shoot was just finished when John returned to the track and Sherlock had barely entered the pit before the whole team was asked to take a picture. As was customary, they placed Sherlock and Jenson in the front to hold the board announcing the race number and track before they all moved away to get back to work. 

John looked around to see whether he could catch up with Sherlock, but he was gone.

He only saw him again when he and Jenson were called in for interviews and Sherlock walked past him, close enough to quickly touch his hand, but far away enough to not be obvious about it. 

John felt the strongest urge to just follow him, to dry his face and watch him drink water and just be close to him. 

“You’re really smitten with him, aren’t you?” Carmen suddenly materialised next to him, grinning widely. 

“It’s ridiculous,” John admitted and rubbed his face. 

“Are you okay, though?”

“Hmm? Yeah, it’s just a bit distracting.”

“Nah, you’re good,” she smiled. “I’m glad you’re back down here with the rest of us.” She handed him a spread sheet which held the results from the latest engine test. “Everything checked out fine. We’re ready to take both cars out.”

John exhaled slowly and then nodded. “Let’s do it.”

The drivers came back when the cars were already warmed up and Jenson immediately put on his gear and got into his car while Sherlock drank a whole bottle of water before he excused himself to use the toilet. 

He didn’t know whether that was Sherlock’s plan, but John followed him when he left the box. “Everything okay?”

“The questions they ask. Unbelievable.” Sherlock seemed exasperated and slightly annoyed, yet he smiled when his eyes met John’s.

“What, did they want to know your favourite kind of yoghurt?”

Sherlock frowned deeply at him. “What? Why would they ask that?”

John laughed. “Never mind.”

“They wanted to know about last weekend, how it felt, two weeks after, knowing that I couldn’t surpass myself.”

“Please tell me you didn’t tell them you would win again this time?”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked and pushed the door to the bathroom open. 

John sighed and leaned against the wall next to the door. “Go ahead. I don’t need to go.”

Sherlock’s eye-brow rose and with a smirk he disappeared in the bathroom. 

Thankfully, he was back quickly, drying his hands and face with paper towels. John yearned to reach out and touch him, but there were too many people around for him to even consider it. “What did you tell them?”

“That we would all do our best and that races are always difficult to predict and that the fun of watching and driving lies in this specific unpredictability.”

John burst out laughing. “Did Jenson tell you to say that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said drily and John laughed even harder. 

Sherlock slowed his steps and watched his face and when he stopped entirely John could feel his eyes on him as if the sunshine had suddenly intensified. He didn’t lean in closer or did anything ontoward, really, apart from looking at John with softened features and a small loving frown on his face that made John’s heart flutter. He swallowed hard and clasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from reaching out for him.

“Well, you didn’t lie,” he concluded and Sherlock smirked. 

“Let’s see how we’re doing, shall we?” Sherlock started moving again and John followed close behind, using the few yards it took for them to return to the box to appreciate his arse in the too tight suit. 

Jenson was already out on the track when Sherlock got ready. John felt his heart in his throat when Sherlock steered Molly out of the garage and onto the pit lane. He joined Lestrade at the conning board to follow the progress of the two cars and was relieved to see that neither of them had any issues. The heat on the track meant that the tyres were at a perfect temperature for now and they could finish their practice laps more quickly, because they didn’t need any further warming up. 

At Sherlock’s final lap, John called him through the radio. “I know you’re tempted, but please save the rubber?”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Lestrade shook his head and logged himself into the conversation. “If you want to pay for a new set of tyres, you are welcome to do as you please.”

“I shouldn’t have told Mycroft to piss off.”

“Indeed,” Lestrade said.

“No, you did the right thing,” was John’s immediate response and he and Lestrade looked at each other for a short moment, both considering their loyalty to the Holmes brothers, before Lestrade took over the line again. “In any case, please come in without any signatures or similar stunts. Over.”

Sherlock returned to the pits without painting an ‘S’ on the track and John waited until he had taken off his helmet, gloves and the HANS before he stepped closer. “You can mark me again any time,” he said under his breath, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for a second before his eyes flicked to his lips and he smirked. Then he began talking about the car as if that was what he had been doing anyway. 

Sherlock stood entirely still, looking out towards the pit lane, avoiding John’s eyes while his ears and cheeks turned a few shades pinker. 

It took Lestrade’s presence to force Sherlock into movement again, and he cleared his throat several times, listening attentively to what his boss had to say all the while looking anywhere but at John. John went to get himself another bottle of water before he sat down at the computer to check the results of the tests and compare them to the tests in Woking. 

Satisfied that both cars had been doing well, John leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly and to relax his shoulders. Tomorrow’s free practice would allow them to see how the other teams had advanced since Silverstone and whether they had to worry or whether they could trust in their own cars. 

John knew they still had a long way to go in terms of building a great car that could get them through a winning season, or to even play in the same league as the great teams, but he was mostly happy that he had built Molly in Sherlock’s presence and that Sherlock loved the car. 

“John?” Jenson gently touched his shoulder and John opened his eyes again. “Sorry, I didn’t want to … umm … were you asleep on the job?”

John chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “I wish. I just needed a moment to calm down. How is everything?

“Good, I think. It’s just so bloody hot that I really wouldn’t mind a wet race anymore.”

“But the motor feels alright?”

“Yes, it’s great. I have a good feeling.”

“Good,” John got up. “The results are really good as well.”

“They want you for an interview. Sherlock and I are heading back in to report on the tests, but you should come, too. Umm, Anderson is coming as well. And Donovan.”

“Which is fine,” John smiled. He had been giving interviews all the time during race weekends – national and international as well as local news, sponsors, projects, fan clubs and occasionally local celebrities if they were interested in any of the technical particularities of the cars. He had stopped doing all of that after the accident and only occasionally talked to the sponsors if they wanted to know where the team stood. But even those jobs he had often passed on to Anderson or even Lestrade if Donovan wasn't simply handing out press releases anyway. 

And now he was returning to his old life, step by step, but much faster than he had ever believed possible after the seemingly endless stagnation which ended only with that one unmarked car in the McLaren garage in Silverstone. 

“You okay?” Jenson asked.

“Sorry, I just didn’t think it would affect me so much.”

“What?”

“Normality?”

Jenson smiled widely and drew him into a quick but tight hug before he let go and made his way into the media centre in the paddock. 

John followed him after a moment, remembering that he would be in the same room with Sherlock and a lot of scrutinising eyes and ears. 

The only seat empty at the table was next to Sherlock. On Sherlock’s left, Jenson was seated next to Anderson with Donovan to his left. 

John nodded at the members of the press before he sat down, not looking at Sherlock at all. However, since the fronts of the tables were entirely covered by advertisement, John dared to reach out and squeeze his leg. Sherlock cleared his throat and John tried very hard not to smile. Instead, he wiped his forehead with a tissue, commenting on the heat. 

Everyone seemed to suffer, despite the air conditioning in the room, so he had the sympathies on his side immediately when the session began. The first question for the drivers concerned the tests, which led to Jenson launching into detailed explanations and comparisons to previous races, going back all the way to the mid 2000s when he had driven in similar heat and retired eventually because he simply wasn’t physically able to finish the race. Sherlock gave him a questioning look and Jenson finished his statement by assuring everyone that he was much fitter than he had been back then and that he would definitely not retire for that specific reason. 

“Have a little more confidence!” Sherlock told him and an audible gasp went through the room. Donovan looked ready to jump into the action at any moment, but she kept quiet. Sherlock realised that he might have sounded a little too harsh and for the first time John wondered whether Jenson would get angry with him, but before he could say anything, Sherlock continued. “You’ve been doing incredibly well and your car is fantastic. You have no reason to worry about not finishing the race.”

Jenson barely smiled, but John could see that he was truly surprised by Sherlock’s vocal support. 

“Ta,” he simply said and Sherlock leaned back, looking ready to challenge anyone who might disagree with him on Jenson’s abilities. 

“Sherlock, umm, Mr. Holmes” a reporter raised his hand. “It’s your second race, …”

“If you are going to ask whether I will repeat the Silverstone performance here I won’t have an answer for you that you will deem satisfactory.” 

John’s hand returned to Sherlock’s leg.

“Erm,” the reporter was visibly confused and he shook his head before he continued his question. “Did you ever consider such a sudden shift in your career and what will you do once Kevin Magnussen and Stoffel Vandoorne return to work?”

“No, and I don’t know,” Sherlock said drily and leaned back, indicating that he was done answering the question. 

“Right,” the reporter scribbled down something lengthy in his notebook and John finally looked at Sherlock. 

“Not good?” Sherlock asked under his breath.

“Yeah, bit not good.” 

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward towards the microphone again. “I apologise. I did not expect to be given the chance to drive, as I have already explicitly explained in Silverstone, but I appreciate it very much, and I have no notion of what will happen once the other drivers return. I do wish them both a speedy recovery.”

John let his hand wander a little higher up Sherlock’s leg before he squeezed again only to pull his hand away as soon as Sherlock’s settled on it. 

“John,” John snapped to attention and he could feel the curl of Sherlock’s lip even though he didn’t look at him. “You’ve been seen doing much more in terms of hands on work than you have previously during this season and the last. What brought on that sudden shift from digital to manual work?”

John pursed his lips and then smiled. “I’ve had a lot of demons to fight over the last year concerning doing manual work after … well, the rally accident, but I am much better now.”

“So are the cars,” Jenson piped up and John chuckled. 

“It’s good to be back in the centre of the action rather than to stand by in the periphery.”

“Does Mr. Holmes’s presence have anything to do with that?”

John felt like someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head. For a second he felt unable to breathe, blinking stupidly at the reporter, knowing that whatever he said now might end up on the national news. He felt Sherlock’s knee pressing against his leg, although he would rather have stood as far away from him as possible in this moment to make sure that nobody could read anything into their physical proximity. 

“Holmes is extraordinarily talented, “Anderson suddenly piped up. “John had the chance to use all the data collected this season and implement it in a new car for a new driver. It’s a once in a lifetime chance. Of course he had to take it.”

The shock of Anderson’s unexpected help brought John back to his senses. “Yes, exactly what Philip said. Kevin’s run was good until the accident. So we had a good car and I had the chance to make it better. I wanted to do it properly, not only in theory. Sherlock is an extraordinary and very unconventional driver and it’s a pleasure to work with him on the car. And it helps that he has a lot of experience in testing, so we work well together. To answer your question, yes, he’s definitely responsible for bringing me back into the pits, but I also have had extraordinary support from Lestrade and Jenson and the rest of the team. 

“How is the general atmosphere on the team?”

“Fairly good. Pretty sweaty at the moment,” John grinned.

“It seemed a little tense during the GP in Silverstone?”

“A lot was up in the air then. A lot of unknowns.”

“So you feel more confident this weekend?”

John huffed. “Not necessarily. I mean, you’ve noticed that ball of burning gas out there in the sky. In Silverstone we didn’t have to factor in the weather. This time it’s our greatest challenge.”

“So if it weren’t for the weather you’d be confident?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Confident that Holmes could repeat his performance?”

John laughed and looked at Sherlock’s thunderous expression, laughing harder when Jenson leaned in and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Well, we all have our hopes and dreams, don’t we?”

The remaining questions concerned technicalities and eventually they were let go, making room for the next team interview. They decided to spend a few free minutes by the VIP bar and sipped iced water while looking out across the track, but after a short awkward conversation Anderson and Jenson decided to go over the stats one more time and suddenly it was just John and Sherlock, sitting by the window, facing away from the crowd.

John looked at him, and Sherlock smiled, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “I could really use a swim in the loch right now,” Sherlock murmured in the general direction of the track. 

“Well, if it was this warm in Scotland, I’m sure I would agree.”

“You’re used to this kind of weather, aren’t you? The desert rallies …”

John nodded. “Yeah, though this heat is much worse than the dry heat of the Sahel.”

“How does it feel to drive through sand?”

John leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. “You have to keep moving. If you stop, you get stuck. If you go too fast, your car flips and you aren’t able to put it back up again. But the dunes are amazing. Sixty, seventy degrees.”

“Temperature?”

John opened his eyes again and shook his head. “Cant.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John giggled. “I love you, too,” Sherlock said quietly, but keeping it light so it could be mistaken for banter, even though it definitely wasn’t. 

“Anyway,” John said after a moment of breathing away butterflies, “you’d love it. And you’d be brilliant at it. Cross country, you’d wreck the cars, but it would be beautiful.”

“Plan B?” Sherlock looked serious.

“Plan F, maybe,” John assured him. “There’s too much work to do in England.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

“Mr Holmes?” A member of the German press came closer, his hand held out in greeting. Sherlock stood and had his own shaken for a good ten seconds before the man began talking with a rather heavy German accent. 

“May I kidnap you for a moment. Just five, maybe ten minutes? Mrs Donovan told me that you would we willing to talk to the press this weekend.”

“Did she, now?” Sherlock looked slightly exasperated, but John gave him a disapproving look, so he shrugged and went with the man. 

John leaned back in his chair and watched a Force India do a test run. The sun was slowly moving towards the horizon, and the sky turned golden, but John knew the night would be warm, too. When Sherlock didn’t return after fifteen minutes he texted him to tell him to come to the party, and returned to the pits, helping with the final check-ups of the day. When they were done, they locked up the garages and returned to the hotel for a bite to eat and shower before hitting the socialising event of the night. John was a little apprehensive, knowing that possible sponsors would be present, and he knew that he would not spend the whole evening by Sherlock’s side making sure he wasn’t rude. 

He’d love that, but he couldn’t. 

The shower was everything he had wanted all day and he waited until his skin felt cold against his palms before he stepped out of it, wrapping the towel around his hips, not bothering to dry himself as the heat did the job for him. He checked on his back in the mirror and blushed just seeing four long scratch marks below his left shoulder blade. Marvelling at the fact that they had both been so far gone that they had not noticed Sherlock’s fingernails leaving visible traces against his back, he shaved, put some gel in his hair and tried to find passable clothes in his bag which were somehow okay to wear in a room whose air conditioning would probably fail sooner rather than later, and which still looked professional enough to allow him to unselfconsciously approach anyone who might be there. 

When he opened the door to his room to go upstairs and check on Sherlock he found him just outside the door, his hand raised as if to knock. Two things made it hard for John to breathe in that moment. The first one was the realisation that they were now in reversed positions which they had been in on the night after Silverstone, when John had finally found the courage to knock and Sherlock had opened the door before he had the chance to do so. The second one was how devastatingly handsome Sherlock looked.


	82. Chapter Eighty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eighty-Two? How the hell did I get there? XD ahh, I know: mostly because of you few, lovely peeps who comment with such encouraging words <3 Thanks so much!

“Fuck, no,” he cursed and grabbed Sherlock’s outstretched arm and pulled him into his room, closing the door behind him. “I’m not going out with you like this.”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked, eyes wide, but his body ready to resist force if he needed to.

“Unkissed and perfect,” John explained and tackled him. Sherlock stood his ground for about half a second before he stumbled backwards and fell back onto John’s bed which had been made by the hotel staff. John was momentarily distracted by the thought that Sherlock might have left the lube and the condoms sitting out on the bed stand, but then he chose to ignore his embarrassment and climbed on top of Sherlock.

“You shaved,” Sherlock noted with a smirk when John intertwined their fingers and pressed Sherlock’s hands against the bed to keep him in place. “And you haven’t done your exercises.”

John rolled his eyes, much to Sherlock’s amusement. Then he leaned down and kissed him, gently at first, to make sure to enjoy every second of the electrifying sensation of feeling Sherlock’s soft lips against his own, before he pressed down harder and opened his mouth. 

Sherlock gasped against his lips and John lost all will to go out. “I would really like to undress you right now.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Likewise.”

“Not what I needed to hear.”

“But what you wanted to hear.”

John blew a raspberry against his neck, making Sherlock giggle. 

“We need to go, though.”

“Well, you’re the one holding me down on a bed while you are trying to tell yourself that your trousers have simply grown too tight for you during the last five minutes.”

John kissed him again, desperate this time, shuddering when Sherlock moaned into his mouth.

Finally he pulled back but with a swift move Sherlock freed his hands and wrapped his arms around John’s back to hold him tightly against his chest. “You could blame me,” Sherlock suggested and John grew serious. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your fault that I find you so attractive.” 

“Right,” Sherlock said drily and with a single well executed push John suddenly found himself on his back and Sherlock on top of him. 

“What now?” John asked, breathless and full of regret that he hadn’t buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair to mess up his perfect curls instead of pinning him down on the bed.

“One last kiss.”

John reached for his hair, but Sherlock moved back, shaking his head. “Only if you behave.”

Instead of trying again, John aimed for Sherlock’s shirt and managed to unbutton it half way down before Sherlock gasped his wrists and pinned them to the bed. They were both breathing heavily now, just short of moaning, and John pushed up Sherlock's hips, feeling him hard through his trousers. 

“What do we do?” John asked, straining against Sherlock’s grip. 

Sherlock just watched him like a predator watches its prey before pouncing. When John thought he might burst any minute now from sheer frustration, Sherlock suddenly let go of his arms and rolled off him. “I forgot something upstairs,” he said flatly and before John could react he was up and out of his room. 

John cursed and tried to calm his breathing, squeezing himself while trying to ignore how much he had wanted Sherlock to do just that. He got up, splashed his face with cold water, walked back and forth in his room and finally lost his erection when he thought of the many people they would be surrounded by in a few minutes. 

When he felt safe to go out, he fixed his hair again, applied some cologne and went upstairs to check on Sherlock. He did not answer the door, so John kept knocking, growing worried. “Sherlock?” he finally called. “Please open up?”

When he still didn’t open the door, John called him, but his phone rang out. He wondered whether Sherlock had not gone upstairs at all but was waiting downstairs now, wondering in turn where John was. 

Just when he turned to go, he heard the door being unlocked and Sherlock opened it, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, I was busy.”

John exhaled slowly and looked him up and down. “You know that we could have helped each other.”

“I know, but I also know that if we had done that neither of us would have left the room again tonight.”

“But you did forget something here?”

“Yes.” Sherlock simply said and then closed the door, walking past John. “Coming?”

"I wish," John grumbled and Sherlock almost fell over his own feet laughing. 

The party had already started when they arrived and John felt slightly overwhelmed. He could tell from Sherlock’s posture that he was off even worse. “I’ll have to make the rounds,” John said close to his ear, fighting the urge to lean in even closer. 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, squaring his shoulders and inhaling deeply. “Don’t forget that you are not allowed alcohol.”

“I wouldn’t drink anyway,” John assured him. “Too much at stake.”

Sherlock nodded and then stalked off and John wondered whether he would leave the party as soon as John had lost sight of him or whether enough people would try to chat him up to make him so severely uncomfortable that he would come back to him. He went to find Lestrade and told him that Sherlock had, in fact, come to the party, and then said hello to members of the other teams. Some of the mechanics were old colleagues, some of them he had met on occasions like these. It was strange how easy the talk came and how much it felt like catching up with old friends whom he hadn’t seen in years, even though they had worked alongside each other at all of the races in the past year. 

He got chatting with Felipe Massa, telling him to be gentle with Sherlock. Felipe just laughed and shook his head. “I expect him to fight like he did last time. And this time I know what to expect.” 

Jenson came by to hand John a drink, which he passed on to Felipe, before he went back to the bar and got himself some iced lemon water. While he waited, he turned around to see if he could spot Sherlock and was met with the sight of a young, blue-eyed brunette in a super tight dress walking up to him with a smile. 

“Like what you see?” she asked and leaned over the bar to place her order, making sure to give John time to check her out. 

John smiled. “Depends on what you mean,” he said, receiving his water from the waiter. 

“Oh, a feisty one,” she smirked, letting her eyes wander down John’s body before she looked at his face again. 

John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock’s bite mark was still visible, but he turned to stand in a way that she simply had to spot it as he craned his neck as if to look closely at the water in his hands and he could tell that his little trick had worked when he looked at her again. “Are you here with the press?” John asked, offering his glass to clink to hers as she received an exotic looking cocktail. 

“Maybe?”

“Our PR rep is right over there if you want to schedule an interview.”

“Even after hours?”

“There are no after hours during a race weekend.”

“Pity,” she said and turned to be able to lean against the bar, imitating John’s posture, but still looking at him. 

“So, no interview.” He feigned disappointment. 

“Rather an off the record kind of thing.”

John smiled and looked at her more closely. She was really quite beautiful but something about her body language seemed off, like she wasn’t really interested in him but paid attention to someone standing further away. “Do you do that kind of thing often?”

“Only when my girlfriend is too busy to pay attention to me,” she sighed and John chuckled, finally understanding. 

“Oh, were you going to ask me for an after hours interview and then leave me hanging?”

“Nah, I would have told you, you seem nice enough.”

“Thanks,” John grinned. 

“I’m Irene.”

“John.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Have we met before?”

She looked at him closely and then shook her head, sending some stay curls flying. “No. Never.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a sports reporter in real life,” she sipped on her drink. “But tonight I’m a date.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?” John asked, scanning the room, trying to guess. 

Irene chuckled and stood closer to John, leaning in to whisper into his ear. “That PR rep of yours that you wanted me to ask for an interview with you.”

“What, Sally?” John was gobsmacked, but somehow it made perfect sense. Sally had never shared anything about her private life and he remembered her mistrust when he had told her about Sherlock. Had she possibly thought he was trying to score sympathy points? 

“You seem … surprised?”

“No,” John shook his head. “I just … never …,” he realised he could only make it worse, so instead he turned towards her again. “She has very good taste,” he said instead. 

“Thank you,” Sally said from behind him and he jumped. 

“You need to stop sneaking up on me,” John said, wiping spilled water from his wrist.

Irene chuckled and Sally stepped around him, ordering another drink from the bar before she turned around. “How are you, John?”

He looked at her for a long moment before he answered. “I’m good. Anxious, obviously, but things are fairly good.”

She held out her drink. “Peace?”

John exhaled loudly and clinked glasses with her. “Absolutely.”

“Thank you, John,” she drank deeply, and John felt bad for pinning so much anger on her. 

“I’m sorry I got so involved in everything. I just couldn’t help it.”

She shook her head. “You were right to do so. If you hadn’t interfered I’m not sure how things would have played out.”

“Is Victor alright?”

“He’s back in Australia,” she nodded. “Thanks for bringing the box and for getting them to talk.”

Irene looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh, you are _that_ John?”

Sally gave her a warning look, but Irene ignored it. 

“What, did she talk about me?” John eyed Sally with a questioning smile. 

Sally grew even more nervous, but there wasn’t any anger or agitation in her movement when she turned away. She seemed rather embarrassed to have private matters talked about in public. 

“Never mind,” John said. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“You were being quite charming just now. Way to get a girl’s hopes up. Might have turned out that I would have been waiting all night,” she grinned and Sally frowned, not understanding what she was talking about. 

John chuckled. “Or rather, neither of us would have been waiting around for each other. And I so rarely get to flirt these days, I figured I’d just go for it to keep in shape.”

Sally chuckled. “Don’t tell me you were trying to chat up John.”

“Well, you were busy chatting with your boss and what not,” she explained, “and I needed a drink, and there he was, looking like he would appreciate some female attention.”

John grinned and shook his head. “I was simply waiting for my drink.”

“For your water, you mean,” Sally smiled and John realised how rarely she did that. 

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Cheers, then,” she smirked. “Ah, that’s him, Irene,” she indicated someone in the crowd behind John. 

John could tell just from the look on Irene’s face when she spotted Sherlock. For a moment she simply stared at him before she looked at John in amazement. “If you don’t flirt, how the hell did you pick him up?”

John laughed and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just got lucky. He also doesn’t flirt.”

Sally nodded wistfully. “Ain’t that the truth.”

John turned around and found Sherlock watching him from a few feet away. When their eyes met, John felt a spark of heat in his stomach and for a moment there was only him and nobody else in the room that mattered. 

With the slightest nod, Sherlock indicated his wish for John to come over to him. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said before he walked over, leaving Sally and Irene at the bar. 

Sherlock cleared his throat when John came to stand next to him. “How are you holding up?” John asked, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, even more so now that he knew they were being watched closely.

“Were you flirting with that woman?” His voice was neutral, but John knew it was only for show. Had they been alone this conversation would go very differently. 

“She was flirting with me, I merely flirted back.”

Sherlock drew in a long calming breath. “So you admit it.”

“Yes.”

“John!” Sherlock seemed scandalised, as if John had broken a major rule in a game.

“What. She’s beautiful.”

“That is not the point,” Sherlock said and sent a glowering glance into the general direction of the two women. 

“Are you jealous?” John asked with a smirk, sipping on his water, trying to ignore that the top three of Sherlock’s shirt buttons were undone. 

“Oh, was that what this was about?”

“Maybe? Or maybe I did it because I can’t flirt with you.”

“Literally or metaphorically.”

John chuckled. “If I talked to you like I want to in public, we’d both be jobless in less than a day.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do you never flirt just for fun?”

“John, you know me.”

“Exactly.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You are very good at being nice to strangers if you want to.”

Sherlock sighed overly dramatically and John had to turn away as to not reach out for him. “Come on, let me introduce you.”

John was slightly surprised that Sherlock followed him, but he knew that he might even prefer Sally’s presence to that of strangers.

“Irene,” John smiled widely, touching her elbow gently and immediately finding Sherlock’s eyes darting to his hand, “this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Irene.”

Irene's smile mirrored John's and she shook his hand, “well hello, handsome,” she smiled and Sally hid her grin behind her glass. Just then a photographer approached them and asked them all for a picture. John quickly stepped away and positioned himself to Sally’s left while Irene and Sherlock stood to her right. The flash went off a few times and for the first time that evening John felt like he had betrayed Sherlock. 

And yet, he couldn’t be affectionate, especially not with photographers around. So he stuck to ordering another glass of water, and watching Irene seize up Sherlock. 

“What do you do outside of driving?” she asked and Sherlock glanced at John, causing Sally to choke on her drink and John to blush furiously. Sherlock needed a second to understand why Irene was laughing now, too, before he shook his head. “I didn’t mean …,” he began, but realised that it was too late to save face now. “Well, it’s not a lie either,” he shrugged and that had all of them in stitches, drawing attention to their group and once more, camera flashes went off. 

“So what do _you_ do in your real life?” Sherlock asked back and Irene smiled sweetly.

“You mean outside of chatting up strangers in bars.”

“Well?”

“I write. I collect data. I publish. I comment on mediocre men playing mediocre sports and great women achieving great things.”

“Play any yourself?”

She flexed her arm and Sherlock looked pleased. John had a feeling that they communicated on a level that he didn’t quite understand. Sally seemed to think likewise, judging by her baffled expression. 

John moved away a bit, and she followed him. “He’s actually nice,” she finally said. 

“If he wants to be,” John agreed. “But yes, he’s actually nice, deep down where nobody expects or sees it.”

“Irene does that to people. She gets them to spill their secrets and they never realise. The things she tells me sometimes.”

“I didn’t know about her.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“You told her about Victor and Sherlock?”

“Well, as I said, she manages to get people to tell her things.”

“Good reporter, is she?”

Sally smiled and nodded. “Quite brilliant.”

“Not one for motorsports, I imagine.”

Sally chuckled. “No. It’s better for our relationship, too.”

John nodded. “She’s quite lovely.”

“Yes, she is.”

John smiled and finished his glass of water. “Do you want another drink?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Right, water then, like me,” he turned away and ordered three glasses of water and Irene’s drink, which he specified by simply pointing at it. 

Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s hand when he handed him his glass and for a few seconds, he held his fingers trapped under his before he took it. “Thank you, John,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Irene happily accepted her drink, kissing John’s cheek for good measure before she returned her attention to Sherlock. 

So much for making him jealous, John thought with a half-smile, finally getting his own and Sally’s glasses. “Cheers.”

They both watched their partners talk to each other and it was like watching a very sexy duel of wits. They couldn’t quite understand what they were saying but every so often, one of them would look overly skeptical or disbelieving before the conversation seemed to resolve the issue. John noticed how similar they were, not only in looks, both dark haired with piercing eyes and very light skin, but also in the way they used their hands to underline the points they were trying to make, the way their brows knitted when they were in doubt and how they both stood tall and unafraid. 

“You know what’s funny?” Sally asked after a while. 

“Hmm?”

“That they are so beautiful and yet they have absolutely no interest in each other, romantically.”

John sighed. “They do look good together.”

“It’s not something we should agree on,” Sally noted, glancing at John with amusement in her eyes. 

“For the sake of disagreement or for the sake of our love lives?”

“Both.”

“I like this,” John said quietly. “Us, being okay again. I didn’t like not knowing how to … be around you.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I was a bitch.”

“No,” John shook his head and looked at her earnestly. “You were trying to protect your brother and he told me that you didn’t know the truth. And so did you. So I understand.”

“Still, I wasn’t being fair.”

“And I was biased.”

“Rightfully so.”

“You’re not upset?”

“About what you did? No. I’m still upset with him for what he did, but I can’t blame him anymore. Though it’ll take a while for the knee-jerk reactions to go away.”

“It’s going to be a while until he stops being afraid of you, too.”

“He’s afraid of me?”

“Terrified.” 

“Why?”

“You can be quite intimidating, Sally,” John explained. “And you were the one link to Victor. And Victor terrified him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is. And things turned out alright in the end, didn’t they? Now we have a man who doesn’t flirt pulling out all the stops with your lady.”

Sally shook her head. “Should we intervene?”

“And reveal to them that we are jealous?”

“Do you think that that is what they are doing?”

“I know that it’s Irene’s plan.”

“And Sherlock?”

John watched him, his perfect hair, his miraculously uncreased clothes, his large hand around a glass that seemed too small in comparison. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think he’s genuinely interested in what she has to say. But I think he also knows that I am always jealous of anyone he talks to.”

Sally’s eyes were soft when she looked at him. “John Watson, you are in serious trouble.”


	83. Chapter Eighty-Three

John sighed and continued watching Irene and Sherlock, feeling slightly annoyed that she was able to hold his attention for so long. At the same time he was glad that Sherlock had found someone who didn’t think him rude or strange and who managed to put him at ease. 

“I’ll be over there with Jenson,” John told Sally and walked away, not turning around. He was tempted to see whether Sherlock would notice him leaving, but he didn’t want to be disappointed in case Sherlock didn’t. 

Jenson immediately put an arm around John’s shoulders and began talking about his plans for a charity triathlon he was planning for in between seasons, detailing which lakes he wanted to swim across, which mountains he wanted to conquer by bike and which fields to run through. Although Jenson was slightly tipsy, John knew that he was entirely serious and suggested that he might start training for it, to which Jenson replied so enthusiastically that he spilled his drink half over John, half over himself. 

Giggling like school boys, they both tried to dry each other with napkins, stopping only when Sally suddenly materialised next to them, giving them a stern look. “Jenson. You’re here on official business. Think of the press.”

She moved on as if she had merely passed by, but Jenson stood up straight and flattened his crumpled and wet shirt against his chest. “Well, lads, this is not a party. It’s a _Partey_. So I shall refrain from any obnoxious behaviour and drink my drink in silence and not be happy to be here.”

“Oi, Jenson,” John placed a warning hand on his arm. “Cut it out.”

“What?”

“She’s just looking out for you.”

“We always drink at these functions. You’ve been here a million times. Why is it suddenly important how I behave at a party?”

“Just humour her?”

“Since when have you become so protective of Donovan?” Jenson asked, though he spoke quietly, his anger slowly making room for irritation. 

“She’s had some rough days, alright?”

“John, mate, I love you, but just because you feel second hand guilt about what happened to her brother you can’t just stop being angry with her for being a cunt.”

John sucked in air through his teeth. “So you are angry with her on my behalf?”

“Yes. And Sherlock’s.”

“Well, she apologised to Sherlock and to me and the issue with her brother is sorted out, so there’s no reason to hold a grudge and resort to name calling, especially not at a race weekend and not when you had a couple to drink.”

Jenson shook his head. “How are you so fucking forgiving?”

“Because I can’t be angry all the time.” 

Jenson looked at him long and hard and finally nodded. “I guess there’s a reason you got through to him so easily.”

John sighed, deciding to let it go and revisit the topic when Jenson was sober and under less pressure, though it bothered him to leave it be now. “Not the only one,” he said instead and turned around to look at Sherlock, who was still talking with Irene. 

“Who’s she?” Jenson seemed thoroughly confused. “She’s gorgeous!”

Considering Jenson’s reaction to Sally just moments before, he kept silent about Irene’s and Sally’s relationship. Instead he shrugged. “She was trying to chat me up first and then Sherlock came along and they have been talking for half an hour now.”

“Are you worried?”

“About what?”

“That he might take her back to the hotel?”

John chuckled. “No.”

“Why not? She’s gorgeous.”

“You said that already. And Sherlock isn’t interested in women.”

“Well …”

John put himself between Jenson and the rest of the room and held his index finger up right in front of Jenson’s face. “No.”

Jenson cracked a smile and pushed his hand away. “Just fucking with you. He better not hurt you or he’ll have a very uncomfortable time on the team.”

John shook his head, but he couldn’t help but be thankful. 

He turned around and saw Irene lean in closer to Sherlock and whisper something in his ear and despite knowing that he was imagining things, he suddenly felt irrationally irritated, and it wasn’t just a misfired feeling of John wanting Sherlock’s whole attention, but base and gnawing jealousy. He watched her lips close to his cheek, knowing she could smell him, feel his breath, the warmth of his body, see the tiny specks of gold in his eyes around his pupil and count the freckles on his face, and he moved towards him without thinking about it.

“Sherlock, can I borrow you for a moment?” he asked, smiling apologetically at Irene, feeling intense dislike for her despite the fact that he knew perfectly well that she was not a threat and a lovely person in the first place.

“Sure,” she smiled and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. “Well, if I don’t catch you at this party again tonight I’ll see you around?”

Sherlock nodded, lips pressed together in a fond smile, and John had to fight down the urge to berate him for it.

“It was lovely meeting you, John,” she smiled and kissed his cheek too and John hoped that a tiny little part of Sherlock might react to that kiss in the same way he had reacted to her kissing Sherlock. 

“Have a good rest of the night,” he managed and she smiled widely and then winked at the two. 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly and John realised that he needed to explain himself but that it was virtually impossible to tell him right there, surrounded by colleagues, friends and strangers. 

“Outside?” he asked, hoping that Sherlock would agree to leave the crowd for a bit. 

His enthusiastic nod took a weight off John’s chest and together they made their way downstairs and soon found themselves wandering among the trailers and motorhomes, and, even though a few people were still milling about, it was much quieter and much less crowded. 

“You’re wet,” Sherlock noted after a few moments of silence. 

“It seems so,” he answered, wishing he had had a drink so he could at least blame his awkwardness on it. 

“Do you want to … be alone?”

“Is it too early to call it a night?”

Sherlock looked slightly worried and John suddenly understood the question. 

“Well, alone with you, yes.”

“Ah,” Sherlock seemed relieved and John inhaled deeply. 

“Sorry, I just …”

“Hmm?” 

John sat down on the steps of the McLaren motorhome, just where he had sat with Jenson and Jess when he had finally allowed himself to form some sort of battle plan. 

“Irene is nice,” he said, finally addressing the elephant in the room. Sherlock sat down next to him, looking up as if to avoid his eyes.

“Yes.”

“New friend?”

“I don’t have … well,” he sighed and looked at John with warmth in his eyes, “I do, in fact and she might become one.”

“You had an awful lot to talk about.”

“She knows a lot about cars.”

“Were you talking about cars the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” he said, watching John from the side, making him feel very self conscious. “She spent quite a lot of time telling me that she could make you jealous.”

John’s head snapped around and he stared at him. “What?”

“Well, you were obviously trying to make me jealous, so I had to find out how that works.”

John knew that he had blushed to the roots of his hair and that Sherlock could probably tell despite the half-light. 

“You didn’t look over a lot, though, so we did talk about sports a bit and how tedious people can be, but she insisted that you would grow jealous eventually. And it would seem that she was right.”

John momentarily hid his face behind his hands before he looked at Sherlock again. “You did it on purpose?”

“Well, I just wanted to see what would happen.”

“So, are you happy with the result?”

Sherlock leaned back, still watching him. “Not really. It made you dislike and mistrust Irene, which is somewhat disappointing but understandable. I disliked her when I saw her with you. And I disliked Jenson for a long time.”

“You mean a week?”

“An endless week.”

“Is that all? You’re not someone who pays much attention to whether I like people or not?”

Sherlock chuckled. “She said you’d take me away and shag me senseless.”

John stared at him. “Well, she was wrong.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said sarcastically and John wondered whether Sherlock was disappointed. 

“I mean, I wanted to … want to,” he admitted and Sherlock’s right eyebrow rose.

“But it’s lovely here. Let’s stay for a while?”

“Are you serious or are you teasing me?” John felt the aftermath of his jealousy make room for the wholly different feeling of bottled up energy that needed an outlet - sooner rather than later.

“Both,” Sherlock admitted and John chuckled and scooted closer until their arms and legs were touching. 

“You said you loved me, in public.”

Sherlock smiled and pressed his arm against John’s. “Meant it, too.”

John looked at him, studying his profile, the softness of his lips, the brightness of his eyes in the artificial half-light of the driver’s camp, the way his face changed when his wide smile turned into a more gentle expression. 

“Isn’t it unfair? If you were a woman, or I was, I would absolutely kiss you now and not stop until we were forced to.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose again and he finally looked at John, their faces too close together now, too telling about how both of them wanted to close that final gap. “We could …”

John exhaled shakily and moved away. “I’m not strong enough for that kind of a fight,” he said, his stomach in knots, feeling as if he was betraying himself and Sherlock. 

“I’m not asking you to make that choice,” Sherlock assured him. “Nevertheless, in case it happens without our choice, I want you to know that I am not going to disappear on you.”

He wanted to say something sentimental, something that conveyed how much he appreciated Sherlock’s commitment to him. And yet, he knew that there weren’t any words for what he wanted to say to him.

“What makes you think that we might be found out?” he asked instead, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach as he imagined just how quickly they would both disappear from the sport and the public eye and opted for a more playful tone. 

“I don’t know. We aren’t particularly obvious, are we?”

John grinned and forced his hands to stay where they were – decidedly not anywhere where they wanted to be. “Nobody figured it out.”

“See? We’re just that good.”

Sherlock grinned, but kept his face turned away from John. 

“Let me take you to bed?” John asked, his pulse loud in his ears, or maybe it was the music floating through the warm night from the paddock. 

“The party isn’t over yet.”

“I can’t go back in there, not without you next to me.” John admitted and Sherlock finally turned to look at him again. 

“Is this,” he waved his hand back and forth between the few inches of air between them, “getting in the way of the work?”

“This isn’t work, this is play, no matter what Lestrade says. And we did play. We were there, there’s photographic evidence. Jenson got scolded for being too silly and I got my shirt soaked.”

“And then we left together.”

“Fuck, we did,” John said, knowing what Sherlock was implying.

“I’m sorry, John. Lestrade told me to be there, so I will be there.”

“Even though you hate it?”

“Well, Irene was alright,” he smirked and John playfully smacked the back of his head. 

“Do I have to sleep alone tonight?”

“Depends on whether you wake up when I knock.”

“I need to kiss you before you go.”

Sherlock looked around. They both knew that there might be cameras around and he also knew that the motorhome had security cameras installed. He hoped that nobody would feel the need to have a look at the footage from the weekend and delete it as they usually did if there wasn’t an incident. 

John got up and walked away, trying to find a spot where nobody could see them and where no cameras followed their every move. Sherlock had been right earlier when he had told him that he would only kiss him if he could find a place where they could be truly alone. 

And whenever he thought he had found a quiet corner, someone walked by or he spotted a camera or found that they were in direct view of a window. 

He grew more and more frustrated, wondering if Sherlock was worried about his erratic behaviour as he walked faster and faster, his hands nervously clenching and unclenching, sweat cooling against his face as he almost broke into a run. 

“John!” Sherlock called after him, “stop.”

He was breathing heavily when Sherlock caught up with him. “What’s wrong? This isn’t like you!”

John stopped dead in his tracks, looking up at Sherlock with a pained expression. “No, this is me. This is me overthinking everything and being so afraid of losing you that I can’t possibly not kiss you right now.”

Sherlock stared at him for a good ten seconds before he nodded and turned to walk away from John. John stared at the back of his head, wondering whether he was testing him, but then Sherlock looked back at him over his shoulder, indicating that he should follow him. So he did, forcing his breathing and his mind to calm down, but still feeling what he had on that unforgettable day in the pit lane, standing so close to Sherlock and wanting to touch him so badly that it was physically painful not to, only a thousand times more so, because now he knew what it felt like and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

Sherlock’s hand on his leg during the press conference, his own on Sherlock’s, their quick kiss outside the motorhome earlier that only poured oil on his fire, that kiss in his hotel room which ended with an empty bed and repressed frustration, and then his half smile when Irene kissed his cheek, and his side pressed to his on the steps of the motorhome, all of those moments were etched into his brain, making him shake with need; the simple but intense need to be as close to Sherlock as possible. 

He couldn’t remember ever feeling something so closely resembling obsession than what he felt at that moment and it scared him. He did not want to drive Sherlock away, and he definitely did not want to risk what they had, but he knew that he would not return to his hotel room alone before wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding on until it became difficult to breathe. 

“Where are we going?” he finally asked, forcing himself to let go of these thoughts occupying his mind to a degree that he could not concentrate on his surroundings anymore. 

Sherlock looked at him, half concerned, half amused. They were still within the gates of the racetrack, but moving away from the Motodrom, finally stepping out onto the tarmac and walking north-east. 

It was much darker on the track, despite a few lamps on the road outside the fence. 

“Did you really think I’d walk down this track with you without looking for possible hide-outs?”

“Wait,” John felt a burning sensation in his stomach. “You planned on this?”

“It’s always good to be prepared.”

Oh. “In case you needed to disappear?”

Sherlock slowed his steps and looked up into the sky for a moment before he looked at John. “Strangely enough, I did not even consider that option.”

John swallowed audibly and Sherlock smirked. “Come on,” he said and held out his hand, and John took it without checking whether anyone could see them. Someone might be concerned about two people walking down the track in the dark, yet their concern would not be about them holding hands, but rather about what they were doing there in the first place. 

The heat of Sherlock’s hand in his almost made John cry, and he held on to it as if he feared that Sherlock might disappear any moment. When they continued straight down the track, he closed his eyes and simply walked, breathed and existed. 

For a minute or so, Sherlock didn’t say anything, keeping the pace slow enough for John to be sure of his steps. Then he stopped and pulled John into his arms and John, overwhelmed, pressed his face against his chest and refused to move for the next five minutes. He was simply breathing in Sherlock’s scent, worrying more about staining Sherlock’s shirt with his sweat and tears than being seen like this, leaning into him so closely. 

“We’re almost there,” Sherlock murmured and kissed the top of his head, his hands gently stroking up and down John’s arms. “Come on.”

John opened his eyes and found that Sherlock had stopped in almost total darkness. The Bernie Ecclestone Kurve lay in front of them, and dark forest beyond. John wondered what would happen if they decided to scale the fence and simply disappear into the forest, but he guessed that Sherlock had a better plan that wouldn’t get them in trouble – at least not in as much as the break out would. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly typed a text before he pushed it back into his pocket. “Told Lestrade we needed another few minutes.”

“So he really does expect you back?”

Sherlock nodded. “I can’t go, though. Not now. I can’t leave you like this.” He pulled John off the track and behind the security wall which framed the track. All around the wall tyres were stacked to cushion any hard impact of a car that might fly off track. There were more tyres behind that wall; reserves in case an accident occurred during the race and the need arose to replace them. 

Sherlock pulled him into a gap which was entirely shielded from any light, the tyre stacks tall enough to hide them almost up to their necks, John more so than Sherlock. There was dry grass under their shoes and the gap was wide enough to sit down and hide properly. 

“Is this acceptable?” Sherlock asked earnestly and John nodded and dropped to his knees. 

“What are you … oh, alright,” Sherlock breathed when John opened his trousers, pulled his shirt free, flattened one hand against his stomach and pulled him out of his underwear. 

“Is this acceptable?” John asked, his voice shaking, adrenaline and endorphins making him giddy. 

Sherlock reached out for support between the tyres and hummed his contented answer. 

John tried to pour out everything he felt through his fingers and his mouth, whispering endearments when he wasn’t busy kissing and sucking on Sherlock’s cock, which quickly hardened under his hands and lips, but he knew he was a bit too enthusiastic and a little too needy, because Sherlock jumped a few times, hissing when John’s touch became too rough and his teeth too sharp against his sensitive skin, and he yelped when John pulled down his trousers further, biting his thigh just above his knee, hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Sorry,” John whispered when he realised his hard he had bitten him but Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. 

“Go on.”

The bite had helped John to get rid of the nervous need to be as close as possible to Sherlock that had overwhelmed him, so that he became gentler with Sherlock, caressing his legs, arse and stomach while happily sucking on him until Sherlock’s harsh breath turned into small desperate whimpers.

Eventually he felt that Sherlock was close, so he made sure to hold on to his hips tightly to keep him relatively stable and in place, and then he sucked him in as deeply as he could, knowing he was playing a dangerous game and yet wanting Sherlock to feel him everywhere. 

Sherlock’s knees buckled and his hands lost their hold on the tyres and instead flew to John’s wrists, holding on tightly as he came with a silent scream, head dropping back, hips jerking forward, choking John despite his best efforts to stay in control.

Yet John held on tightly, swallowing despite the pressure and Sherlock’s erratic movement, making sure that nothing would end up on his clothes so he could return to the party without raising any eyebrows.

He wanted to get up, but Sherlock fell to his knees, accidentally elbowing John in his side and awkwardly trying to get his trousers up again which proved impossible until John pushed him over into a half sitting, half lying position and helped him, both of them trying to stifle their giggles. Finally, Sherlock pulled John on top of him. “Thanks for being careful,” Sherlock said quietly, “but I think I’ll have grass stains and dirt on my trousers anyway.”

John bit his lip and tried to make out Sherlock’s features in the dark. His heart was beating quickly and he had to force himself to calm down lest he assault Sherlock again with his teeth. 

“Sorry I bit you,” he said, letting his hand wander down to Sherlock’s knee. “Though I figured it was safer here than anywhere up higher.”

Sherlock chuckled and wiggled a bit until they lay comfortably in the small alcove, John half on top of him. “Do you want me to touch you?” Sherlock asked and John imagined him taking his clothes off entirely, making love under the stars, and he shuddered, despite the warmth of the night.

“I need you to hold me,” he admitted quietly, “but I know you have to go back.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, more felt than heard. 

He wrapped his arms around him tightly and kissed his temple and John closed his eyes again, wondering why he felt so out of control. Then he remembered his nightmare, the nightmare that had caused him to panic long before Sherlock knew anything about how he felt and yet he had reacted in the best possible way. He had felt the same desperation earlier when he believed that for some reason Sherlock could disappear from his life – only now he knew that he loved him back, making it infinitely harder to bear the thought.


	84. Chapter Eighty-Four

“John, can I please touch you?”

Sherlock’s hands had been running up and down his back, but he had also tugged John’s shirt free and begun touching him underneath, his fingertips dancing along the line of exposed skin above his waistband. 

“You can do anything, Sherlock. Anything you want.”

“Tempting,” he smiled, “but not practical.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John needed Sherlock to know that this wasn’t typical and that he understood that Sherlock had other priorities at the moment. 

“John, I know. You don’t have to explain,” Sherlock said earnestly, gently touching his face before kissing him, almost timidly at first, but increasingly passionately and sure, making John moan loudly. Eventually he pulled on Sherlock’s hand and pressed it between his legs. “Don’t you dare leave me hanging again,” he murmured against his lips and Sherlock quickly wormed his hand into John’s trousers, squeezing him, causing John to gasp and press his face against Sherlock’s chest, feeling his entire being reduced to pressure, heat and pleasure. 

Sherlock moved his hand awkwardly, not having enough room to stroke him as John’s trousers were still fastened, but John couldn’t bring himself to let go of Sherlock to help him, not when his fingers were wrapped around him like this, like everything he had wanted since that kiss behind the motorhome. 

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” he whispered and Sherlock huffed out a laugh, crushing their lips together once again. 

“Oh John,” he finally said, “the things you do to me.”

He didn’t specify what those things were he was talking about but it was enough to push John over the edge. He came under Sherlock’s hand, fully clothed, gasping for breath in the dark between dusty old tyres, too hot and too overwhelmed to be comfortable. Yet none of it mattered because Sherlock held him tightly and kissed the corner of his mouth while he was gasping for breath, squirming against him. 

For a long while they stayed like this, Sherlock’s hand still in John’s trousers, his lips against John’s face, while John felt the anxiousness and arousal slip from him as if he had emerged from deep water and he could suddenly breathe again. 

“Point taken,” Sherlock said eventually, tugging at his hand. John lifted his hips to make it easier for him to move and grabbed his wrist when Sherlock automatically wanted to wipe his hand on his own chest. 

“Remember, you have to go back.”

Sherlock chuckled and used John’s shirt instead, making him giggle and complain loudly.

“What point?” John asked after the he had extricated himself from Sherlock’s arms and sat back against the tyres, watching Sherlock do the same, but slightly more gracefully than he had.

“Not to make you jealous if I cannot immediately redeem myself.”

“I’m sorry I overreacted.”

Sherlock shook his head, a mere shadow moving against a darker backdrop. A shadow John loved fiercely. 

“I was in your shoes, after the race. I couldn’t stand not touching you. I was so sure that everything would fall apart if I did and when you came to Baker Street…” he stopped for a moment and John moved closer to him, taking his hand and kissing his palm, smelling dirt and salt and his own scent. 

“It was easier after I heard you in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen. I had confirmation from you, or so I thought. I was spared the hope, at least.” 

John took his other hand and repeated the kiss. 

Sherlock exhaled shakily. “I really couldn’t … fathom what you were trying to do when you touched me. I’m sorry for how I reacted, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, never mind expecting you to be so cruel.”

John pulled him into a kiss. Sherlock laughed quietly. “I really didn’t understand what the hell was happening when you kissed me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so wrong footed in my life.”

“Really?” John asked, immediately regretting taking Sherlock’s mind off their first kiss. 

“Well, with Victor, despite it all, I was somehow prepared to be rejected. But I never thought I could be so wrong about you.” 

“I’ve never seen anyone react to me that way. I’ll never forget how you looked at me when you understood.” John shuddered just thinking about it. 

Sherlock pulled him in for another kiss as if to prove to himself that he could simply do that. “That was the longest week of my life,” he finally said. 

John smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Do you want to go back?”

“No,” Sherlock immediately answered and John chuckled. 

“Didn’t really mean _want_. More like, do you think you will be alright if you go back now for the last few minutes this party is still going? 

“It’s not yet midnight.”

“Try to get home as quickly as possible?”

“If by home you mean your bed, then yes, I’ll do my best.”

“Go and check yourself out in the light before you go in?”

Sherlock nodded and kissed him again before he pushed himself into an upright position. 

“Sherlock?” John called after him when he was almost gone from his sight.

“Yes?”

“This isn’t getting in the way of the work. Without you there would't be any work anymore. You brought me back here, and I love it. And if this kind of thing is part of it, then I’ll gladly accept that. ”

Sherlock walked back and crouched down in front of him. “Thank you for saying that.”

“It’s how I feel.”

“Me, too,” he whispered, and was gone. 

John sat there for another ten minutes, his back against the tyres, his underwear growing sticky and uncomfortable, staring at the clear skies overhead before he received a text which shook him out of his reverie. It was a picture of Sherlock’s arse, obviously taken with the flash of his camera. Underneath it, the short question: _Is this acceptable?_

There were a few stains, but nothing that would be obvious as long as nobody looked closely at his arse – the chances of which were relatively low, John thought – but not something anyone would comment on. He wrote exactly that as his answer.

He took off his trousers and peeled off his underwear, swearing when he realised just how hard he had come, and folded his pants and stuffed them into his trouser pocket, knowing that his clothes would need thorough cleaning. He grinned, thinking of the fact that Sherlock was familiar with the sensation. 

_Good night, John._

He read the text when he finally left the track through the official gates and walked towards the hotel. A few people were still outside, and he earned a few interested glances, but that was probably due to his slightly awkward walk rather than anyone recognising him or noticing the state of his clothes. 

At the hotel, he noticed that his key card was missing and he wondered whether he had lost it by the track. It would be difficult to sneak out and look for it tomorrow, but at least now he could claim that he had forgotten to take it to the party with him. 

The clerk, whose eyes wandered down John's clothes with only the slightest sign of irritation, let him into his room and John thanked him profusely, so much so that the young man eventually seemed to feel guilty on John’s account of having forgotten the card. When John tried to tip him, he flushed and refused and wished him a good night. 

Once the door was closed, John immediately dropped his clothes, rinsed out his underwear, stuffed all of them into the laundry sack and placed it outside of his door before putting out the do not disturb sign. Due to the party he wouldn’t have to be back at the track before eleven when they would set up for the first free practice before making space for the GP2 and F3 races. 

He did half of Aki’s recommended exercises before he decided to call it a day. Somehow it was a lot less enjoyable when Sherlock wasn’t there to tease him - not that it ever really was enjoyable in the first place. John sighed, knowing that he needed to overcome is aversion to exercise to truly get better. 

John enjoyed the third shower of the day as much as the previous ones and he fell into bed naked and feeling both happy and distinctly lonely. 

He woke up for a moment when the bed dipped next to him and he was pulled into a gentle embrace, and he drifted off again to soft lips against his shoulder, but when his alarm went off, he found that he was alone. 

The only proof he had that Sherlock had been with him during the night was his key card that lay next to his phone on the night stand. 

Strangely enough, John felt quite happy and content as he brushed his teeth and prepared for another hot day. The free practice would show how the other cars had changed since the previous race and whether their own improvement was equal to that of the other teams, but somehow he felt confident that Sherlock would be able to deliver another solid performance and prove that he belonged where he was. 

Downstairs at breakfast he found that half the team seemed somewhat hung-over, but Jenson was awake and alert, waving at John to sit down next to him.

“I saw Sherlock earlier. He’s at the track already. I’m not sure he slept at all.”

John smiled and drank his coffee, trying very hard not to tell Jenson that even if he hadn’t slept, at least he had been in a bed for a part of the night. “And how are you?”

Jenson nodded. “I’m good, thanks. And yourself?”

“Drinking only water does have its advantages.”

“Oh, by the way, why didn’t you tell me that the gorgeous woman is actually Donovan’s girlfriend?”

“Did you ask her?”

“Donovan spilled the beans after a few more drinks.”

“You were being an arse to her, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Jenson rubbed his face and leaned in closer. “So I’m not allowed to be upset with her?”

“Not if it’s about Sherlock, no.”

“I don’t understand. First Sherlock reacts like he’s seen a ghost whenever she shows up, then she keeps making his life hard, you get involved and end up unhappy … just tell me what’s going on so I can understand. I mean, why does Anderson suddenly seem okay with it all, to? It's all a little confusing.”

“They believed that Sherlock had done something truly awful and they were wrong about it, well, at least about his motives.”

“So they were being severely unprofessional.”

“Well, no more than Lestrade bringing in someone who is known for breaking things and disobeying orders.”

“But he signed a contract and he is currently listed as the second reserve driver. And he's done a bloody brilliant job so far. There is nothing dodgy about any of this.”

John leaned back and looked at Jenson for a long moment. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met him?”

Jenson shook his head. “I just saw you two together when you introduced us and you were already … well, together.”

John got them more coffee, letting Jenson’s words sink in, before he began recounting the events of the fateful day Mike had offered him a chance to drive and instead he had found something much better than his courage. He left out Victor and the issues Sherlock had had with Sally and, by proxy, Anderson, but Jenson seemed aware of it – enough as to not interrupt him when he skipped over that part.

Jenson listened attentively and occasionally took a sip of his coffee before he finally squeezed John’s shoulder and smiled. “Thanks for sharing that with me. And thanks for saying yes to him, I guess, because even though my gut feeling might be wrong, but I do think he’s done the team a world of good, especially considering that we’d have a real problem if he hadn’t jumped in.”

“Stoffel will be back for Budapest, though, and Kevin will recover sooner or later.”

“I’m sure he can tag along.”

“We can’t afford a second reserve driver.”

“Says who?”

“Lestrade. Or rather his coffee consumption.”

“What about Sherlock’s brother?”

“Well, Sherlock might have told him to piss off.”

“Good for him, theoretically … but bad news for the team?”

“I’m honestly much more comfortable knowing that we are not taking money from him, but then I don’t know what kind of arrangement Lestrade has with him.”

“So you are telling me to get another podium?”

John nodded. “The better you do …”

“The more likely it is that we keep him on. I see. But John, McLaren is not a small team. We won’t go bankrupt even if we screw up. To be fair, we would already be there if you looked at the last two seasons.”

“Maybe not, but there are spending priorities, and I am fairly sure that the board will not allow a second reserve, not with a talent like Stoffel. They know him, they know he delivers. They've never met Sherlock and his current contract runs only for testing, so he’ll be in Woking, driving tyres to bits …”

“Ah, come on, John, do you really think Lestrade will let him run wild when you aren’t there to watch him?”

“I hope you’re right,” John admitted, butterflies making him giddy. 

“And then during the winter you can work on the car and return with the most amazing engine the sport has ever seen.

“From which you will profit immensely.”

“Exactly!” Jenson chuckled. “Now, let’s go and see how we are doing this weekend.”

Together they left for the track and while Jenson got ready for the tests, John made sure the pits team was prepared. They went through another few pit stops and John was happy to see that they were working towards a record time. If they managed to get the race award for the fastest stop, he would achieve a personal goal he had long since given up on. 

He almost ran into Sherlock while he was reading times from a chart, walking backwards towards Sherlock’s car. It was an amused “watch it” that made him stop in his tracks and turn around. 

“Morning,” Sherlock smiled down on him and John smiled back widely. 

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you,” Sherlock answered. “And yourself?”

“Very well. Finally more than eight hours after god knows how long.”

“Not quite as much, in my case,” Sherlock’s smile turned into a grin. “But guess who had too much to drink last night.”

Just then Lestrade entered the pit, the walking picture of a hangover. 

“Did you … have a hand in this?” John asked quietly and Sherlock chuckled. 

“He did some, how did he call it, soul searching.”

“Well, what did he find?”

“A new sponsor, and one that isn’t my brother,” Sherlock said smugly. 

“Did he, now?” John felt his heart in his throat. “That’s good news, right?” He looked at Sherlock, who caught his meaning and nodded. “Yes, I dare say it is.”

“So it was good that you went back?”

Sherlock exhaled loudly and shrugged. “Well, for that it was.”

Lestrade waved them all over and explained his state with exactly the information Sherlock had just shared before he asked for a bottle of water and some aspirin. Sally showed up with the press roundup, looking similarly hung over, but at least sounding like nothing was wrong. 

“Thanks for coming anyway,” John said as quietly as he could. 

“I didn’t realise you woke up.”

“Ah, well, it could have been a dream if it wasn’t for your smooth move with the key card.”

Sherlock grinned. “I knew they’d let you into the room without a problem. I mean, the state you were in ...”

“How’s your leg?” John asked, louder now, knowing that their whispered communication was more suspicious than for them to talk at a normal volume. 

“Fine. I think. Quite the … bruise.” He shrugged. “How is your shoulder?”

John rolled it and then stretched his arm. “It’s good. At least something the heat is good for.”

“Children,” Lestrade came over and stopped in front of them and John laughed at his expression while Sherlock looked offended. “Be good and get ready for the test?”

“Sure.”

“I’m not a child.” Sherlock said icily. 

“Well, sneaky bastard then.” Lestrade grinned, but his grin turned into a grimace of pain. 

“Just because you can’t hold your liquor …”

“Oi, watch it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave his boss the most judgemental look John had ever seen and turned to walk away to put on his racing gear. John watched him calmly, wondering what it felt like in his suit, about to sit in a car that could simultaneously catapult him to unknown heights and burn out around him. 

“Be careful,” John said before Sherlock climbed into the car.

He nodded and then looked straight ahead, concentrating on the task at hand. It was only the free practice, but he had to be careful with the car and he still needed to figure out how to keep it from overheating. 

Jenson went out first and John watched his progress on the screen, smiling when he saw him smoothly run down the corners, getting good sector times even in his warm up lap. He did very well in the next two laps as well, driving a bit more daring, but careful as not to challenge the car too much. His lap and sector times were better than during the previous four years, and John was glad to see him smile widely when he took off his helmet, reminding John of Jenson's younger years when he was used to driving with the top four. 

Watching him, John wondered whether they, as a team, could pull it off to get him another win, at least, before he retired. 

He was shaken out of his thoughts when Sherlock left the pit, driving carefully and rather slowly through his warm up lap. There were already quite a few fans around to watch the free practice and when Sherlock left the pits noise rose up in the Motodrom. Once he crossed the finish line John could tell that he was testing the track, going too wide on the corners, braking too late or too early, speeding up unnecessarily and then braking too harshly in the Motodrom. 

John could see Lestrade talking to him through the radio, and for a moment he felt a pang of jealousy for not being included in that conversation before he checked himself and went back to watching the screen. 

Sherlock shot past them at the finish line, beginning his second counting lap, and suddenly his style changed entirely. He took the Nordkurve perfectly, oversteering a bit when he came out but correcting himself without losing time and driving towards the Bernie Ecclestone Kurve. John had to grin when Sherlock passed their late night spot on the track and a moment later he slowed down for the Haarnadelkurve, speeding up again immediately, a little too fast to be good for the car. If he could pull that off during a race he’d be able to overtake anyone on the straight, one of the few good places to pass by the slower cars. 

He shot past the Mercedes Tribüne and within seconds he was back in the Motodrom, speeding past the finish line with a two second margin on Jenson. 

Jenson, who had climbed out of his car and stood next to John, simply shook his head. “How the hell does he do that?”

“Well,” John grinned, “he’s testing what she can do. And while the car can do that for a lap or two, he can’t possibly keep this up during a race.”

“Did you perform some kind of black magic to get that car to full speed so quickly?”

“That’s the engine and the car and Sherlock, all working together like they were meant to,” Lestrade raised a bottle of water to the screen as Sherlock took his in-lap slowly, arriving in the pits as if nothing special had happened. 

John wanted to mock his boss’s sentimental statement and simultaneous praise, but he needed to hear from Sherlock how the car felt, so he excused himself and spent the next hour jotting down notes on Sherlock’s experience of two single laps, comparing his remarks with the computer results. 

Sherlock was full of energy. Whenever John was writing, he was buzzing with excitement, wanting to get back into the car and do it all again. 

“You have to check the brakes,” John reminded him. “It’ll be warmer and you’ll be doing a lot more of that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Just saying. I don’t want your arse to catch fire.”

“Noted,” Sherlock grinned and leaned back, watching John through slanted eyes. “You’re happy.”

John looked up from his notes and met his gaze. “I am.”

“You weren’t happy two weeks ago.”

“No. Not really.”

And then Sherlock’s face softened and John felt suddenly overwhelmed with butterflies. “Don’t do that,” he breathed and Sherlock frowned for a mocking split second, telling John wordlessly that he would look at him the way he was looking at him right then anytime he chose to, whether John wanted him to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McLaren do have two reserve drivers and an additional two test drivers. They are a filthy rich company - but this is fiction, right?! ;)


	85. Chapter Eighty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to LadyRedCrest, because facebook told her the other day that we've been friends for five years, which is a lie, because she was one of the very first people to read my attempts at ff over on livejournal and she's been super supportive, both online and in real life and in the end this fic also owes her constant (begging) asking for more its many chapters, along with a few others (thanks again for the comments <3). So, it must be six years that I've known her, so cheers to that (and cheers to Jenson for finally getting his first point this season in Sochi). 
> 
> PS: Don't hate me for the cliffhanger, LadyRedCrest ;)

Lestrade called them in for lunch before either of them decided that making out in a bathroom was a good idea, and together they walked upstairs into the paddock to find that catering was thankfully offering a lot of fresh fruit and several cold dishes, and when Sherlock merely glanced at the food and grabbed a bottle of water, John piled as much fruit as he could on a plate along with a large bowl of salad. 

He put both on the table between Sherlock and himself and gave him a challenging look. “You have to eat.”

“Drinking water was part of the deal,” Sherlock grumbled and John shoved the plate closer to him. 

“You doing what I am asking you to do was the deal.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip and glanced at him sideways, causing John to shove him gently in mock annoyance. It was the next best thing he could think of to comment on Sherlock's subtle teasing that didn't involve kissing him. 

“Doing what Lestrade tells me to do was the whole deal.”

“For this weekend.”

“It is this weekend,” Sherlock countered.

“Fine. No food, no sex.” John said under his breath. 

Sherlock’s head snapped around and he stared at him, scandalised. “You can’t possibly go through with this threat.”

“Well, I do have your photos on my computer.” John grinned openly at him. 

Sherlock glared at him before he tentatively reached out for a banana. 

“Good boy,” John grinned, wondering whether the banana was intentional, and dug into the salad.

Sherlock worked his way through half the plate before he went to get himself some mousse au chocolat, which, to his great and vocal disappointment, was not as good as the one at Woking. 

“It’s just not the same,” he said after a while.

“Well, you can eat it again on Monday.”

“No,” Sherlock clarified. “The photos.”

“Oh,” John felt his face flush and there was nothing he could do about it. He stared at the table, praying that nobody would pay attention to him. 

“Yesterday before the party, I tried to … I mean, they helped, but it was far from satisfactory.”

John wanted to crawl under the table and wait until the blood had left his head again, instead he looked at Sherlock, trying to lose his embarrassment and concentrate instead on Sherlock’s surprising honesty when it came to his talking about his feelings and experiences. 

“Good to know that even your photographic memory does not quite suffice,” he finally managed before he snatched a strawberry from Sherlock’s fruit plate and popped it into his mouth. “Ready to get back to work?”

Sherlock nodded and moved to get up, but then he sat down again, looking down on the table before his hand slipped into his pocket and produced a stack of post-its – John’s post-its that he had hidden in Sherlock’s luggage. 

He simply sat there, holding the yellow notes in his hand, looking down on them, not quite sure what to do with them. 

“Hold on to them until after the race?” John asked and gently touched his hand, motioning him to put them back into his pocket.

“But the writing will smudge.”

“You mean when the champagne soaks your suit?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him again, but this time there was nothing guarded in his look, nothing that was meant to make John react in a specific way. He just looked at him in wonder. 

“I love you,” John mouthed the words silently, but Sherlock’s eyes hung on his lips and for a few seconds his breathing grew faster; fast enough for John to grow worried. 

“Let’s go,” he said and got up, patting Sherlock’s shoulder before walking away in the direction of the door that led to the stairs. 

Sherlock was gone when John turned around again, but too many people walked in and out for him to actually see where he had gone. His fingers itched to call him, but he knew that Sherlock would find him if he wanted to be with him. 

Regretting it somewhat to not have waited for Sherlock, John went back to the pits and began putting his gear away for the day. The GP2 training and qualifying would start in a few hours and the pits had to be cleared for the day. 

It was only when Jenson and Anderson showed up, deeply engrossed in conversation, that John truly wondered where Sherlock had gone. Once he had packed up, he went to the motorhome, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

He called him, but Sherlock didn’t answer, so John left him a voicemail.

“Hey, Sherlock. Where did you go? I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You said you’d answer if you disappeared, so I guess you didn’t and that you are busy doing something you need to do on your own. Just, let me know when you are free. We’re almost done here and since we’ve got the cars well on their way, I think we’ll get the evening off and I was wondering whether you’d like to watch a movie later, or something? Something normal and relaxing?” He was cut off by the time limit of Sherlock’s mailbox, so he called him again. 

“Anyway, what I was saying was that I would really like to spend the evening with you so we can both relax a bit and maybe just … you know … talk? So, umm, I’ll be in the garage or the motorhome, depending on where Lestrade needs me. Just text me? I … umm. Yeah. See you later? Bye.” He shook his head at himself to stumbling over his own words so much. 

He found Lestrade and reported back with the results, marvelling at how smoothly things had gone despite the heat. He still worried, but somehow there was a sense of calm which reflected the general heat; as if somehow things would be alright. 

Lestrade had recovered from his hangover and told John to sit down with the mechanics and talk about how they could cut another second from the pit stop and to consider the tyre issue once more, just to be safe. The skies were entirely clear and the sun burned down on the track with such force that it was difficult to imagine that it would ever be cold again. And still, Lestrade wanted the team to consider a wet race as a probability rather than a possibility. 

John wondered whether it was wishful thinking or whether he knew something about rain and Sherlock that John didn’t, but he decided not to ask and simply called in his colleagues for the meeting. 

It was six o’clock when Sherlock finally texted him and John felt his heart in his throat when he unlocked his phone to read the message.

_Apology for not answering. Was busy. Not busy anymore. At hotel. Waiting._

John chuckled and texted back. _You are aware that you are texting and not writing a telegram, right?_

_When are you coming?_

John grinned and walked outside, trying to hide both his grin and his excitement. _Soonish._

_Hurry up._

_Why so impatient?_

_John!_

John laughed out loud and dialled Sherlock’s number. This time, he picked up immediately. “John, why aren’t you here yet?”

“Because I cannot perform magic.”

“Are you still at the track?”

“Yes, obviously. You know that I am.”

“Are you walking away?”

“No, what? No! I’m at the driver’s camp.”

“Why aren’t you on your way yet?”

“Is this what I think this is?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“Are you suffering from the same symptoms that I suffered from yesterday?”

Sherlock huffed and that was all John got as an answer. 

“Well, you see. I’ll have to check if anything else needs doing and then I can come.”

“John, you can’t possibly have anything more important to do than … coming,” he made a frustrated noise and John chuckled. 

“You know that you are just making this so much more enjoyable for me?”

“What on earth do you mean?” Sherlock sounded scandalised.

“Well, you admitted that the pictures don’t help much.”

“Well, I haven’t tried the video yet.”

John inhaled deeply and willed his heart rate to go down again. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“Good. Hurry up.”

Sherlock hung up and John exhaled slowly, taking notice of his surroundings and trying to sort his priorities. He checked on Luke and Josh and found Anderson and several other colleagues busy with tyre prognostics at a computer, doing the maths by matching up possible temperatures, pressure, and braking distances with abrasions of the different tyre types. 

“Do you need me for anything else?” John asked Anderson, who handed him a print out of the first batch of results. 

“Show these to him. I’m sure he knows what to do with them.”

John nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be at the hotel, if anyone needs me. Call anytime.”

“ _Right_ ,” Anderson said and then cleared his throat and repeated the “right” in a less suggestive way. John bit down his amusement and turned to go. 

“Good work, John,” someone called from the back of the room. John turned around and smiled, being met with nodding heads and smiles. “Here here,” someone else called. “Good to have you back,” and Carmen wolf whistled, making everyone laugh. 

John pretended to wipe away some tears, though he was dangerously close to shedding some real ones, and gave a small bow. “You all gave your best today, despite the heat, so be proud of your work, and get me that second off that stop tomorrow,” he grinned. “I want Jenson and Sherlock to fly through their stops so quickly people will think they didn’t really stop at all.”

“You got it,” Darren, the lollipop man, called from the back and everyone cheered for a moment. When John left the track, he had to wipe his face after all and when he arrived at the hotel he felt slightly emotionally hung over. 

He told the front desk that he had found his key card and made his way upstairs. His room was very empty, even though he knew that Sherlock couldn’t possibly have gained access without his key card, and though he didn’t think it beyond him to talk his way into getting into John’s room, he was probably mindful of not raising too many eyebrows or questions. 

John undressed and had a shower, forcing himself to not call or text Sherlock, and took the time to shave as well before he put on jeans and a t-shirt again, shook up the sheets a bit in an attempt to make it seems as if he has slept in his bed, grabbed Anderson’s print out, the sheets with Aki’s exercises, some more clothes, his toothbrush and Sherlock’s bathrobe, and made his way up to Sherlock’s room. 

He knocked quietly, just in case the others had returned as well, worrying his lip and wondering in what state he would find Sherlock. He was slightly surprised to find him fully clothed in dress pants and a shirt when he opened the door. 

Sherlock’s eyes immediately scanned his face and he stepped back, making room for John to come in. “Are you alright?” he asked once he had closed the door and John placed the clothes on the chair and his toothbrush and the sheets of paper on the desk before he looked at Sherlock again. 

“Yes,” he said, still quiet, and still not quite sure whether what he felt was anxiousness or relief. “I just imagined you’d be naked.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched but he shook his head minutely. “What happened?”

John exhaled slowly. “The team.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They’re good and supportive and really, really nice.”

“And that worries you how?”

“I don’t know if I’m worried. I really don’t know what I feel,” he kept looking at Sherlock, hoping that his scattered emotions would somehow take on a familiar shape. “I think I’m scared of disappointing them. And I think I’m starting to worry a bit about them all and at the same time … I’m just. I’m proud, I think.” His finger tips itched and he balled his hands into fists only to open them again and stretch his fingers wide. 

“Oh, John, you’ve every reason to be proud of yourself,” Sherlock looked at him as if he couldn’t believe that John might have issues with this. 

“Is that what it is?”

“John, are you asking me, _me_ , to define an emotional concept?”

“Well, what did you feel when you won Silverstone?”

Sherlock huffed. “Validated, somewhat. Frustrated, mostly. Pleased to see you happy. I was proud of _you_ , not myself.”

“But why not?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before he shrugged his shoulders. “I was taught to be proud of where I came from and who I was, but not of my achievements. I’m not sure that it’s comparable, as I quickly developed a certain disdain for all of those things except the latter. But I don’t think I was proud of what I achieved, if I ever did. Mostly, I learned that Mycroft was involved in anything I thought I had done on my own, so I began to distrust success.”

John was honestly surprised by how Sherlock dissected his own position concerning pride.

“When I used to win races, I think I was proud. But it felt different.”

“I was proud of myself when I realised that I could bring you to orgasm,” Sherlock suddenly grew much more animated. “Although, I am not sure that that is comparable.”

John chuckled. “Well, that’s something, and definitely something you did on your own.”

Sherlock grinned and stepped closer. “Can we, maybe, umm …” he swallowed hard before he closed the remaining gap just when John reached out for him, and with more force than expected their lips crushed together, hard enough to bruise, and they parted again, gasping and giggling before trying again more gently. 

Eventually John pulled back, but he kept his hands on Sherlock’s back, holding him close. “Maybe I appreciate it more than I used to.”

“Context?” Sherlock asked and John chuckled, pressing another kiss against his lips. 

“Achievement. The fact that the team is happy that I am working in the garage again. The fact that I managed to build a car that hasn’t failed either of us yet. The fact that I am respected not for my driving skills, but for what I did during the last few weeks and the fact that I am better.”

Sherlock nodded. “You’re really good at what you do.”

“Context?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and gently bit John’s left ear lobe. “I’d be lying if I did not also mean this,” he pulled John harder against him, making him grunt. “But the car and the work in the garage and the pits. You’re the most capable man on the team and you have every reason to be proud of that.”

“Thank you,” John said quietly and gently kissed him again. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and managed to look hurt, although the gleam in his eyes betrayed his almost perfect act. 

“Were you serious about it?” John studied his face, wanting to hear him admit that he had been just as desperate as he had been last night. 

Sherlock’s expression changed to something more open and soft. He scratched the back is his head and avoided John’s eyes for a moment, looking quite flustered, and John wanted nothing more than to just give him what he had wanted. Yet he waited, knowing that something had happened in the meantime that had calmed Sherlock down again and he wanted to know how Sherlock had gotten over it. 

“The video … was … umm, more helpful than the pictures.”

John grinned. “Did you come?” he breathed and Sherlock’s eyes met his, sending a flash of heat down John’s spine. 

“Twice,” Sherlock finally said and John’s eyes grew very wide. 

“Well, fuck me.”

“Sort of,” Sherlock remarked drily and John giggled. 

“I came up here expecting you naked and desperate for me to touch you, but it seems …”

“That I still am,” Sherlock assured him quickly, growing embarrassed about how needy he sounded. “Not naked, but …”

“You’ve got homework, and I need to work out.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “Right. Priorities," he said drily and John wasn't quite sure whether he was being serious or not. 

John pulled back, even though he would have very much liked to stay in Sherlock’s arms for the next few hours, and picked up the print-out. “Anderson said you’d know what to do with this.”

Sherlock scanned the page and sighed. “I do.”

“Good.” John picked up his exercises and chose a page he had not worked through before. Realising that he didn’t wear underwear, he started doing them in his jeans, though he did pull off his t-shirt soon after he had warmed up and made sure that he was in Sherlock's direct line of sight while never once looking back at him. 

He felt his muscles burn, but it was the general strain rather than his shoulder that he felt, and once he had finished he found that he wasn’t as out of breath and exhausted as he had previously been. Maybe he should start running or join Sherlock in a pool to get properly fit again. 

Placing the exercise sheet on the desk once more he turned around and found Sherlock sitting in the middle of the bed, Anderson’s list, entirely ignored, by his side, openly staring at him. John felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply as if he hadn’t dared to breathe deeply for a long while and fumbled for the sheet. “Checking on your progress,” he murmured as he hid his face behind the paper. 

“Have you read anything at all?”

“Yes?” An almost muffled sound from behind the paper. 

“So, what’s the deal here.”

Sherlock lowered the paper slightly, peeking over the rim. He had blushed just as pink as John had. “Do you mean the results or the general … umm … situation?”

John shook his head, grinning. “You’re a marvel,” he said fondly, climbing onto the bed and taking the sheet from Sherlock, who silently looked at him, his cheeks still flushed. “Now, what’s all this?” He came to lie on his stomach and placed the paper in front of him and, after a moment, Sherlock copied him, scooting close enough to be shoulder to shoulder with John. 

“Anderson suggests that if I brake more softly while approaching the hairpin, I can save rubber.”

John looked at the numbers, but he felt his concentration slip. The heat of Sherlock’s body against his own was too distracting. He was already hot from his exercises and the room stored a lot of the day’s warmth, and yet, he felt drawn to Sherlock’s body heat in a way he couldn’t explain. 

“Feasible?”

“Possibly?”

John leaned a little harder against him, feeling him press back, and for a moment he felt ridiculously young and stupid and in love, like nothing mattered except for the fact that he was in bed with a beautiful bloke who tended to rub people the wrong way but who opened up to him completely. “Kiss me,” he murmured against Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him for a moment before he leaned in and very gently kissed John’s lips. 

“Again,” John requested, raising his chin for better access. This time he didn’t let Sherlock pull back. Instead he wrapped his arm around him and pulled him on top of himself, pushing one leg between Sherlock’s and lifting it, drawing a moan and a shudder from Sherlock. “Drive like you need to, like you want to,” he whispered against his lips. “I know I’m supposed to tell you otherwise, but do what you do best.”

He could tell from the way Sherlock’s body tensed that he wanted to reply with a self deprecating remark, so he kissed him again, effectively shutting him up. Their kiss grew more heated and very soon John was tugging at Sherlock’s shirt while Sherlock tried to worm his hands between their bodies to open their trousers, and he had almost succeeded when John’s phone rang. 

“No,” he decided and kissed Sherlock again, but his phone wouldn’t stop ringing and when it finally did, it was Sherlock’s phone that took over. “I cannot believe this,” he groaned and let go of Sherlock who cleared his throat, squeezed himself through his trousers, and then scrambled to pick up the phone. 

“Lestrade, how nice of you to call …”

John chuckled and stared at the ceiling, wondering in how much trouble they’d both get if Sherlock decided to ignore team orders. He found the idea strangely exciting, even if he should know better. 

“So this is a babysitting call and nothing else? You are literally calling to see how we’re doing?”

John frowned and pushed himself up on his elbows. “What does he want?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes. Will do.”

Lestrade kept on talking and Sherlock looked slightly annoyed until John began to slowly take off his jeans.


	86. Chapter Eighty-Six

His eyes grew very wide and he lowered the phone, not paying attention to Lestrade anymore, and John had to cover his mouth with his hand to keep himself from laughing out loud when Sherlock realised what he was doing and pressed the phone against his ear again. “Umm, Lestrade. I will deal with this, but we’re … um … yes. Busy.”

John bit his lip and slowly stroked himself, raising a challenging eye brow at Sherlock who grew ever more flustered. 

“We’re analysing braking distances. Anderson gave me a detailed spreadsheet about the hairpin and you said we need to save rubber as best we can.”

John was impressed by how put together Sherlock sounded, considering his cheeks were flushed and his left hand was tugging at the sheets to divert his need to touch onto something else than John. 

“Yes, I intend to. Yes. Yes, John has done his exercises. No, he has not been in pain. Yes, all is well, I just don’t look forward to the autograph session tomorrow, but I’ll manage.”

John itched for Sherlock to touch him, but he knew that a little patience would go a long way. 

Sherlock looked like he was about to hang up when he sat a little straighter, his interest in John's acivities momentarily flagging. “Why did you call John’s phone?”

For a second Sherlock grinned widely at Lestrade's answer before he checked himself again. The way he looked at John now, though, spoke volumes. 

“You are an evil man,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on John’s. “But I will hang up now if you don’t have anything constructive to say.” He sniffed and rolled his eyes before he said his good byes and hung up. 

A moment later, John’s phone announced a text message, and, in a fairly constant rhythm, a few more right after. Sherlock grinned and picked up John’s phone, handing it to him.

“What did he say?”

“He just wanted to _check on us_. See if you’d done your exercises, because Aki told him what his plans for you are and he wanted to see whether you are keeping up. And he wanted to send you these.”

"Aki has plans for me?" John asked, slightly irritated, and wiggled until he was in a more comfortable position than before and opened the text messages, finding that Lestrade had sent him the team and driver’s photos. Most of them looked fairly normal, but Sherlock did stand out. With his head full of curls and a somewhat aloof expression, he looked decidedly different from Jenson with his open and wide boyish smile which had helped him to uncountable dates before he had met Jessica. 

Sherlock didn’t smile in any of the photos, not until the final one, which was not an official one, but clearly taken with Lestrade’s phone camera during the morning. It showed them both, standing only inches apart, looking at each other as if there was nothing else worth looking at, and John finally understood what Jenson had said about them on that fateful Sunday two weeks prior. 

It was only when Sherlock cleared his throat that John realised he had been staring at the photo for a long time, tapping his screen distractedly whenever it threatened to darken. 

He exhaled slowly and then handed the phone back to Sherlock. “I think we do need to be more careful.”

Sherlock’s face was blank when he looked at the photo and John wondered whether he was alone in seeing their connection so obviously captured and immortalised in the picture. 

Finally Sherlock looked at John and shook his head. “I don’t think I know how to.”

“Maybe it’s just obvious when you know what to look for?” John suggested, knowing in his heart that anyone who saw it would immediately believe that the photo showed two people who were deeply connected. 

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think so.”

“I really don’t know. I wouldn’t, probably, if this wasn’t us.”

“It’s a bit … much.“

“What is?”

“This. Having a photo of us looking like that which we didn’t know was being taken.”

“Better than CCTV.”

John chuckled. “Yes, well.”

Sherlock sniffed and placed John’s phone on the nightstand. “Would it be very inappropriate of me to ask you to make love to me now?”

“I’m naked on your bed. I don’t think there’s ever been a more appropriate time.”

“Don't you want to text him back?”

“No, I can say thank you tomorrow.”

“He did this in purpose.” Not a question. 

“Yes. He absolutely did.”

“He should know better.” Sherlock said quietly, sounding like Lestrade had done something similar before. 

“How do you mean?”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. The qualifying. He should tell me to go to bed and make sure that we are mentally and physically prepared.”

“And you think it would make a difference if he had not just texted me the photos?”

“Maybe. You seem quite … moved.”

John smiled. “So do you.”

Sherlock smirked and let himself fall forward, landing half on top of John and just right to raise his chin and kiss him on the lips. 

“Do you feel mentally and physically prepared?”

“Ask me again tomorrow?”

“Don’t walk away this time?” John asked. “I don’t really know my way around here and it would be unfortunate to lose you.

“If anything happens, I’ll be here,” Sherlock said earnestly and John smiled. 

“Good to know. Now, do you really want me to fuck you?”

The root of Sherlock’s nose crinkled and John had to laugh. “Make love to you, then, if you can’t handle fucking.”

“Why do you have to be vulgar?”

“Because I enjoy making you blush, posh boy,” John grinned and kissed him deeply. 

Sherlock moved further up the bed to be able to kiss John more comfortably before he began stripping his clothes off, getting nowhere until he rolled off John and shed his clothes efficiently, watching John watching him. When he was finally naked, John pulled him close and kissed him again. 

Sherlock reached out for the lube and condoms, but John was busy now kissing his way south, so it took Sherlock several attempts to finally pick up the tube, which, John noticed in the back of his mind, had been safely stored away in the drawer. 

Once John had reached his stomach, he smiled up at Sherlock and pushed his legs apart, gently teasing his erection but generally keeping his touches light, knowing that if he wanted this to last at all, he needed to keep both of them away from the edge for as long as possible.

He took his time to prepare Sherlock, and even though his needy sighs and frustrated little jerks of his hips almost made John opt for simply sucking him off, he managed to force himself to calm down. He managed to get Sherlock ready and relaxed within minutes before he kissed his way back up to his lips and reached for a condom. 

“Can we do it without?” Sherlock asked quietly when John was about to roll it on himself. 

“No, Sherlock. Sorry, but no.” He carefully put on the condom. 

“Why?”

“I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about, but with my history of injuries and all, it’d rather not risk anything.”

Sherlock nodded. “I understand.”

“I can’t risk you, you know? Even if there is nothing, I just can’t.” John looked at Sherlock for a long moment before he began pushing in, feeling Sherlock tighten, then relax, then tighten again and finally welcoming him in. 

“None for me this time around?” Sherlock asked breathlessly but with a smile and meaningfully looked around the room.

“If you want to, you can have one.” John tried hard not to whisper endearments at Sherlock at the moment, though he wasn’t sure why he was fighting the urge. 

“We should have brought the fruit flavoured ones. If they fulfil no other purpose than to taste of artificial fruit, at least they would keep me from making a mess.”

“Duly noted,” John chuckled. “Now, you better hold on until I can concentrate on you again.” 

“Oh, sure, just use me. Go ahead.”

“That is exactly what I intend to do,” John grinned and nipped at Sherlock’s chin. 

Sherlock scoffed, making John laugh breathlessly before he stifled his mirth by kissing Sherlock deeply as he started to move. 

Within a few minutes Sherlock was panting against his lips, eyes screwed closed, his hands firmly holding on to John’s buttocks without trying to control his movement. He simply lay on his back, his legs spread apart widely, his breathing growing ever faster, and before John managed to slow down, Sherlock came, untouched apart from the friction of their bellies. 

“Fucking hell,” John gasped, stopping his movement with the intention of letting Sherlock calm down. 

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock grunted, trying to get him to move again. John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock would be too sensitive, but he figured that he would tell him if it became too much.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, pushing Sherlock’s hair out of his forehead and Sherlock smiled widely before he pulled his hands up from John’s arse, making sure to stroke along his flanks and back before he framed John’s face with his hands and pulled him down for a kiss. 

John began moving again, surprised by how close he suddenly was, and tried to concentrate on the kiss to last a little longer. 

Sherlock gasped every now and again, but he did not ask John to slow down or stop. Just when John was about to come, Sherlock pushed his face away from his own, watching him closely. His eyes grew wide when John came, still inside of him. 

When John opened his eyes, which he had squeezed shut, too overwhelmed by Sherlock’s expression and his own body’s reaction, he found that Sherlock’s eyes were wet. 

“What is it?” he asked with a raspy voice, unsteady and worried by the sudden tears. “Did I hurt you?”

Sherlock shook his head, causing the tears to run across his temples and into his hair. “No,” his voice was just as raspy as John’s. “Quite the opposite.”

John exhaled slowly and carefully pulled out, tugging the condom off and preparing to get off the bed when Sherlock held him back. “Don’t go. Not now.”

John looked at the condom, then at Sherlock’s and his own stomach and chest and shook his head. “Two seconds.”

He almost stumbled over his feet when he tried to get to the bathroom as quickly as possible, disposed of the condom and wet a towel with cold water. He jumped onto the bed, drawing a high pitched noise from Sherlock which made him flush and John laugh, and placed the cool towel on Sherlock’s stomach before lying down on top of him. 

“Sorry,” John apologised and gently wiped at the tears on Sherlock’s cheek bones. “But now we can stay here and never move.

“Until tomorrow morning.”

“Well, yes.”

“Or until I need to use the bathroom.”

John rolled his eyes. “Ever the romantic.”

“Never said I was.”

“You just don’t know that you are one, deep down.”

“Right,” Sherlock pulled a face before growing serious again. “I’m terrified of tomorrow,” he suddenly admitted and John felt his heart plummet. 

“Why?”

“Because of what happened last time.”

“They have changed their minds about you,” John assured him, moving so that he lay next to Sherlock rather than on top of him, wanting to ease his breathing. 

“It’s not about them.”

“What is it, then?”

“You.”

“But you are really good at shutting everything out. I’ve seen you do it.” He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his guts that this was Sherlock telling him that their relationship was compromising the work after all. 

“Well, yes, until I can’t.”

John wondered whether he should move further away from him, but he couldn’t force his hands to let go of him. “Should I leave?”

“What? No! Absolutely not!” Sherlock looked at him, his face a mask of confusion. “I don’t mean to say that I dislike thinking about you in inconvenient moments.”

John frowned, not understanding what Sherlock was saying at all. 

Sherlock watched him, his eyes flicking back and forth between John’s, a visual of his racing thoughts. “I’m not terrified of that, per se. I think I am terrified of knowing that I am back where I was two weeks ago and that I might start doubting us again.”

“But we’re here, together, as in, together.”

“I know. I know that _now_. But what if I make a mistake. What if something happens to the car? I can’t help but think that I will start questioning everything. It happened to me before; progress I had made entirely eradicated by a negative experience.”

John looked at him for a long moment, somehow trying to understand the complex emotions Sherlock was trying to express before he carefully stroked his cheek and smiled. “If you are in doubt, touch your knee.”

“Huh?” Sherlock seemed confused, so John placed his hand right next to Sherlock’s knee and pressed down. 

Sherlock grunted, visibly surprised by the pain, but immediately his frown made way for a wide smile. “I see.”

“I’m not sure that I should be proud of that, but it if helps you to know that I most definitely have made love to you and that you didn’t just imagine the last two weeks, then I don’t regret biting you.”

Sherlock grinned, infinitely more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. “It will help.”

“And if you make a mistake then that’s what it is. Alright?”

Sherlock screwed up his face. “It’s never meant that much.”

“What hasn’t?”

“Me, being good at something. Apart from what it means to me.”

John smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know you want to be good. Or, the best, rather.” 

Sherlock inhaled deeply before he nodded. “I do want to win.”

“And I want you to drive. Because I built you this car so you have something that is just right for you. And so far it has worked out fine and the car has been good to you and you have been good to the car. And in the end, I’d rather see you drive beautifully and win a fight like you did against Felipe than get a pole-finish win under your belt.”

Sherlock carefully wiped his and John’s stomachs with the towel before he dropped it off the bed. Then he pulled John close again. 

“I know winning feels amazing,” John conceded and closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s. “But that’s not why you drive.”

“Is it not?”

“Do you know why Jenson still drives, even though, before last weekend, he hadn’t won anything in years?”

“He’s well paid?” Sherlock guessed and John chuckled, hugging him close. 

“He loves the fight. I know you don’t think so, but he’s very competitive. He’ll be happier after a race in which he won a couple of close battles than a boring race which he won by a clear lead. If I get to see you and him fight it out on the track, it’d already be brilliant entertainment.”

“Can we go to bed?” Sherlock asked instead of reacting to John’s words and John laughed quietly against his shoulder. “Well,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I mean, get ready for bed.”

“Absolutely,” John kissed him again before he peeled himself out of Sherlock’s embrace and then pulled him up. They brushed their teeth quickly and washed away the remaining traces of their love making before Sherlock curled up in bed and John switched off the light and opened the window widely before he lay down next to Sherlock. 

It was quite a while until Sherlock uncurled his body and started speaking again. “So if I start worrying the bite will help me.”

“Or, you know, you could always radio in.”

“I won’t have time during the qualifying.”

“Just generally. For the race. I’ll be right there.”

“And I’ll drive for entertainment rather than success?”

“No, you drive in whichever way you feel most comfortable. I don’t think you know how to drive in a boring way. So all will be well.”

“Why do I still feel terrified?”

“Well, it’s a risky sport.”

“Yes, but …”

“Can I suggest something?”

Sherlock huffed. “Of course.” 

John smiled and kissed his shoulder. “I think you are not used to have people root for you. Not just me, but Lestrade, Jenson, half of the drivers are fans or at least highly impressed by what you did two weeks ago. You have a lot of people on your side and you don’t want to disappoint them.”

Sherlock was quiet, but John could almost hear him think. 

“You want to prove that you deserve their support. But you already did prove that. Yes, some of them might be disappointed if you don’t repeat your performance from last time, but most of them just want to see you shake things up a bit. Because you drive differently from anyone else. Watching you drive is exciting and also slightly worrying and very,” he moved closer until he could press a kiss to Sherlock’s chin, “very sexy.”

Sherlock turned onto his side to face John, ending up almost nose to nose with him. John didn’t move away and smiled at him. It was almost dark by now, but John could still see the glow in Sherlock’s eyes and the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He still didn’t speak.

“I know I shouldn’t say this, because it might prove to be distracting, but when I watch you drive, I get very … excited.”

Sherlock’s exhale was almost a moan and John bit his lip. “So go out there and do what you do best and don’t forget to enjoy it, because I will most definitely enjoy watching you.”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. Despite the stifling heat in the room, John found that he didn’t mind one bit. 

“This is your chance. For one weekend only, to do what you love doing without having to worry about anything else. And even if something goes wrong, Lestrade wants to keep you and I want to keep you, too. So while it might be your last race this season, I doubt it will be your last race with McLaren.”

“Can you fall sleep like this?” Sherlock said after a long silent moment and John smiled, because he could hear in his voice what he didn’t know how to say out loud. For a moment John hugged him even tighter and finally relaxed with a sigh, settling comfortably in Sherlock’s arms.

“Yes, I think I can.”

He felt his own breathing calm down and Sherlock’s hold on him slowly relaxed. Just when John felt he would slip into sleep, Sherlock kissed his forehead. “Where were you all my life?”

John couldn’t answer for the tightness in his throat, but he could lift his head a bit and kiss him gently on the lips. Then he closed his eyes again and with a sigh let himself drift off. 

He woke up before the alarm and the first thing he noticed was that the sun wasn’t shining even though it was light out. The air was already stifling hot, but the sun was hidden behind a cloudy sky. John wondered whether it was the change in light that had woken him but then he noticed Sherlock’s lips against his collar bone and smiled. 

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and moved a little so he could reach John’s lips and gently kissed him before he hid his face against his chest. 

“What time is it?” John asked, unable and unwilling to move to check on his watch or phone which both lay out of his reach on the night stand. 

“Just past six,” Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again. 

“So we have an hour until we have to get up.”

“Roughly, yes.”

“Roughly?” John chuckled and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, tugging hard enough to make him look up. The puffiness around his eyes did nothing to hide the spark of interest his action caused. 

“Did you sleep?” John asked, moving down the bed a bit so that he came to lie face to face with Sherlock, who immediately reached out to trace the shell of his ear and then his jaw before his fingers moved on to his lips and then into his hair. John’s eyes fell shut and he shivered despite the heat when Sherlock’s fingernails gently teased his scalp and then his neck. 

“I did. Very well. I did not dream, even though I expected it.”

“I’m glad,” John smiled. “Neither did I.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded and then pushed John onto his back, slowly moving down his body. 

John swallowed hard, vividly reminded of his first sexual fantasy of Sherlock, only that there was nothing awkward or embarrassing about it now. 

“Like this?” Sherlock asked and kissed John’s stomach before he pulled him, already half hard, into his mouth and let him sink in deeply. 

John reached for a pillow and stuffed it under his head to be able to see without putting too much strain on his shoulder before he gently touched Sherlock’s face. “Exactly like this,” he whispered, his voice still rough, but for a different reason now. 

Sherlock smiled around him and John moaned only to remember that the window was wide open and that it was still eerily quiet outside except for a few song birds, and that any sound would probably carry widely. 

“We weren’t quiet last night,” John stated, trying to keep his voice even.

Sherlock simply watched him from below and John pressed his eyes closed for a moment to not be overwhelmed by Sherlock’s lips around him, exactly like he had looked in his sudden fantasy, only that this time there was a whole body attached to the imaginary lips and hands, one hand pressing him down while the other steadily stroked along his flank, adding to the already incredible sensory overload John was experiencing. And then there was his arse, moving rhythmically against the bed, not quite quick enough to suggest that Sherlock could make himself come, but definitely a sign that he was not neglecting himself while pleasuring John. 

Understanding that he was simply picturing in his mind what he could just as well look at, he opened his eyes again and gasped, almost surprised by how much better the real thing looked than it did in his mind. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, loudly, obvious in its implication, and he pressed his own hand against his mouth, staring wide eyed at Sherlock who simply let him slip in and out against the pressure of his tongue and lips. There wasn’t much art to it, and he occasionally fell out of rhythm when John hit the back of his throat and he chocked, but he didn’t let that stop him and John thought that this, this alone, would be enough to sustain him for the rest of his days. 

Because it was more, so much more than just a tired blow job by a man who had only just started to understand how much power he had over John. But it was his eyes, his half smile that was obvious despite his stretched lips, the small delighted noises he made whenever John shuddered or jerked or let out a grunt he couldn’t control. 

“Oh my god,” he moaned again, this time against his hand, hoping it would be less audible while Sherlock made a noise that could have been a chuckle or a moan, and sped up. 

John managed to hang on for a few seconds before it all got too much and he gave in to the pleasure of it all and came, surprising Sherlock once again with the intensity of it, making him choke and pull back, his hand cupping his head, and John felt himself pulse against his fingers. 

It took him a while until he could form any kind of coherent thought again and once he did, he sat up and wiped Sherlock’s face before kissing him hard and thoroughly, and pushed Sherlock on his back before returning the favour. 

Sherlock came within seconds and John almost regretted it. He would have loved to slow things down and to tease him a bit, give him something to think about in moments of boredom or fear, but when he found himself wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms a minute later, exhausted and deeply sated, he found that he really didn’t care. 

With half an hour until their alarms would go off, they fell asleep again, sticky and sweaty and entirely oblivious to the sound of rolling thunder in the distance.


	87. Chapter Eighty-Seven

When John opened his eyes again, he could smell rain. It was an earthen, warm smell that he never smelled in London, but frequently when he was abroad. It made him smile. Then he woke up properly and let the implications of rain sink in. 

He sat up, his eyes settling on the world outside the window. It was windy and the clouds were hanging dangerously low, but it didn’t rain. Yet. Or not anymore. It was hard to tell.

“Sherlock?” he gently touched Sherlock’s hip. “Wake up.”

Sherlock shifted and curled himself around John with a sigh. John had to chuckle. “Come on.” _Love_ , he added mentally, biting his lip at the realisation of how easy it came to him. He knew he couldn’t start saying it, because it would inevitably slip out when they were in public, so he swallowed the endearment down again. “We have to go to work.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured against John’s thigh. 

“Yes,” John pushed at him until he moved to lie on his back, naked and warm, smelling faintly of sex and sweat, staring up at John tiredly. 

“It looks like rain,” John noted, running his hand from Sherlock’s collar bone to his navel, smiling when Sherlock’s breath hitched. “Smells like it, too.”

“Our secret plan,” Sherlock pouted and John giggled. 

“Not so secret anymore.”

“It’s not Sunday yet,” Sherlock noted. “It might rain today and not tomorrow.”

“Can you drive a decent time for the qualifying.” 

“Well, if I’m the only one driving in rain while the others are driving in dry conditions, I guess not.”

“You’ll go first and last.”

Sherlock nodded, chewing on his lower lip. “I’ll be fine.”

John nodded. “Yes, you will.”

“Do we really have to get up?”

“We really do,” John confirmed, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s stomach. 

“Don’t!” Sherlock breathed and shifted as to bring his own hips closer to John’s mouth. 

“Is that what you want?”

Sherlock huffed indignantly. “I said don’t!”

“Oh, I heard you,” John smiled, moving lower. “Loud and clear.” 

“John!” Sherlock pushed at him half-heartedly, moving him closer to his cock, and John giggled. 

“So I should just go?” He offered, gently nipping at him, feeling him grow hard against his lips. 

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. 

John took that as a no and went to work properly. It didn’t take him long to get Sherlock close, but, despite knowing that he was getting them dangerously close to getting into work late, he took his time keeping him at the edge, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock couldn’t see what he was doing. His laboured breathing told John that he was trying very hard not to make a sound, so he made it a challenge to surprise him and draw a gasp or a stifled moan from him anyway. 

When the sound of an airhorn exploded in his ears from right outside their window, John jumped, almost biting Sherlock. “Fuck,” he murmured and stopped playing with him, speeding up until Sherlock’s hips snapped up, desperate for release, and John pushed him down with both hands and swallowed around him.

Sherlock’s hands flew to his face to cover his mouth as he came, his hips straining against John’s grasp. He had barely come down from his orgasm when John let go of him, pulled his hands away from his face and kissed him deeply. Then he disappeared in the shower, where he washed quickly, ignoring his own erection, and was dry and dressed before Sherlock had even managed to get out of bed. 

John smiled and kissed him again, careful to keep their bodies from touching. “I’ll see you in the pits.”

Sherlock nodded and John made his way to the door, picking up his things on the way.

“John?” Sherlock called him back just when he wanted to open the door.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, sheepishly. 

John grinned widely and walked back the few paces that separated him from Sherlock before he tucked a few curls behind Sherlock’s ear and kissed him again. 

“Most welcome.”

He left before his body changed his mind about being separated from Sherlock for more than a few inches and made his way to his own room where he changed into his team’s clothes, sorted his hair and went down for a quick breakfast. 

The impending thunderstorm was the number one topic in the breakfast room, so nobody commented on him being late. When Lestrade entered the room silence fell and he cleared his throat. “The weather report says it’ll be gone by noon. No rain will fall, apparently. So we go as planned and hope that some of the teams will go on wet tyres.”

“What if it rains?” John asked, seeing a few heads nod in agreement with him. 

“Then we come in late. Both Jenson and Sherlock will play this safe, but I trust the report and the statistics. Prepare for some air pressure headaches and stay hydrated. Don’t let the weather distract you from what you’re doing. Business as usual and then some,” he looked pointedly at John, who nodded, newly determined to make the best of the day. 

When Sherlock came in, still looking tired but much more put together than John had secretly hoped, he could feel his whole body yearn for him. Sleeping so close to him, even closer than usual, had been an enlightening experience. Neither of them had moved during the night, despite the potentially awkward position, pressed together chest to chest, legs intertwined, cocooned in each other’s body heat. And now it felt wrong not to be next to him. 

Their eyes met and John could feel energy burn down his spine and settle in his gut. Sherlock was definitely not terrified anymore. 

John smiled and nodded at him as if in a first greeting of the day before he shouldered his bag and made his way to the circuit. Mike already waited for John in the garage, updating him on possible material changes in the future which he suggested after having studied the computer results before sitting down by the conning board, patting an empty seat next to him before he radioed someone to bring them coffee. The fans had started to arrive and the Motodrom was filling up with them. John could feel his heart beating faster at the sight and sound. 

“How are you, John?”

John smiled, watching Mike for a long moment before he answered. “I’m a changed man.”

“Curiously unbroken.”

“Thanks for the warning. It got pretty close a few times.”

“Please tell me that this is not innuendo.”

John pretended to be scandalised. “Jesus, Mike. No, absolutely not. I mean, things did get intense a few times.”

“And yet you are here, pottering about on a chassis and manning the pit stops like a boss.” 

“Thanks, Mike.”

“This weekend is different from Silverstone.”

John huffed. “Indeed.”

“Have you considered that the car might not make it?”

John frowned and sipped on his coffee. “I have. But I want her to make it. I really love her and I think it’s one of the best ones we’ve ever had.”

“If the car makes it, we’re taking her down to the exhibition.”

John looked at Mike long and hard. “So neither Kevin nor Stoffel are getting to drive her?”

Mike got off the chair and stood a little closer to John, lowering his voice. “You do what you have to do to offer them a good car. But that one,” he pointed at the pit behind them. “That one is Sherlock’s and you’ll need that for next season.”

“Is that a done deal?” John felt his heart in his throat. He knew that Lestrade wanted to keep Sherlock, and he had made sure that Sherlock knew that, but he also knew that at least a part of his threat had been real. Sherlock had to play by the rules to stay, and this weekend would be the final test of that. But if Mike already had plans for the car then he knew that the paperwork had already been discussed and approved by the board and Sherlock set down as the second driver for the coming season.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Mike said, smiling into his coffee.

“Yeah, because so many others could have told me, right?”

Mike chuckled. “I’m glad I was wrong about him.”

John raised his cup to him. “Me, too!”

Just then a rumble of thunder went through the stadium and both John and Mike looked up. “Well, this is going to be interesting.”

“Good luck, John.”

“Thank you, Mike.” They finished their coffee and then hugged and John made his way back to the garage while Mike went into the paddock to check on the computers which would record the qualifying results. 

Within minutes, the pit lane and garages were buzzing with activity and an hour later the drivers had arrived in full gear while the cars were already warmed up. A few dry tests later John gave the signal to start Molly’s motor. “You okay?” he asked Sherlock who pulled on his balaclava without a word before putting on his helmet as well, checking the microphone and the straw before he got into the car. Only once he had completed the pre-drive ritual he looked at John, his fingers plugging in the radio, the straw and the steering wheel with practised moves. 

His eyes were grey in the strange light of the overcast sky, but there was nothing of the steel they held during the last qualifying. 

John wanted to say so many things to him, but none of them mattered more than their eye contact, so he settled for that, watching Sherlock’s eyes narrow in a smile before he winked at him and pushed down the visor. 

John squeezed his arm before he stepped back and watched the car’s final preparations. The noise from the Motodrom had steadily grown louder and it exploded when the first announcement of the day was made and the qualifying started. 

John could feel his heart beat fast against his ribs, his fingertips pulsing. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, hoping that the heat and the air pressure mixed in with his anxiety wouldn’t leave him light headed. And then it was Sherlock’s turn to leave the pit. 

John tugged his headphones on, not wanting to miss any potential call from Sherlock or order from Lestrade and made his way back to the conning board. Lestrade gave him a wide smile and then turned back to watch the screen which showed Sherlock’s progress. 

He took the out-lap slowly, almost stopping in front of the hair pin only to step down on the accelerator to get some speed into the car. When Sherlock passed the Mercedes Tribüne, John felt ready to pass out and held on to the back of Lestrade’s chair. 

It seemed like an eternity until Sherlock shot out of the final corner and sped past them. Immediately the radio clicked on. “John, relax.” It was all he said and John forced himself to let go of the chair and root himself to the ground with his feet before he looked up again. 

Sherlock drove smoothly and perfectly on the ideal line, cutting the corners sharply, but not hitting the curbs too hard. His sector times were good, though not special, and he came in with a very solid 1:17:553. 

John’s heart still beat quickly when Sherlock returned to the pit, and, contrarily to last time, immediately plucked the helmet off his head and pulled off his balaclava, smiling widely. The team applauded and someone told Jenson loudly that there was no pressure on him at all now. Jenson chuckled and gave Sherlock an enthusiastic two finger salute. Sherlock laughed and shook his head as if disappointed by Jenson’s immature behaviour. John knelt down next to the car, gently touching the already blistering tyres. 

“Are you alright, John?” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes flicking to the camera currently pointed at him. 

“Yeah,” John said breathlessly. “That was beautiful.”

“You looked tense.”

“Why were you watching me instead of the track.”

“It’s a straight, John. I didn’t lose any time by watching you.”

“But you radioed in while you were going down the Nordkurve. In your timed lap.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I won’t be doing that again, then.”

John felt wrong footed, but he swallowed down a harsh reply. “I’m sorry. You did get a perfect lap in.”

Sherlock frowned. “So, are you okay?”

“Nervous.”

“The holding back your hair kind of nervous?”

John wanted to kiss him for that reference. “A little.”

Just then Jenson left the pit after Felipe had taken his lap and John had to leave Sherlock to check on his progress. He was doing very well in his out-lap and had a perfect start into his timed lap, getting better times in the first two sectors than Sherlock. Checking the times John saw that Felipe had gotten 1:17:412. He gritted his teeth and watched Jenson shoot down the straight, finishing with 1:17:870. 

Once more, the team applauded, knowing from experience that both their drivers would be in the top ten with those times. But it did made John wonder whether Sherlock had held back. 

“I want to go on super softs for the second round,” Sherlock said when John returned to him. “The track will be less dirty and I think I could do better.”

“What held you back?”

Sherlock looked at John sharply before he shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose I did not want to raise unrealistic expectations.”

“Unrealistic? So you did hold back.” John crouched down again. 

“Well, what if I do really well in my first round and then slaughter the car in the second.” 

“Sherlock, this is not the time to think of your public image.”

Sherlock suddenly looked pale and John wondered whether he had missed something. “I’ve disappointed too many people in my life…”

John needed to touch him, comfort him and take his mind off his worries, but there was nothing he could do about that particular urge. “It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks, Sherlock. You give it all you have and you will not hold back. And if that means you make a mistake then so be it. If the motor suddenly decides to give out, then that’s what happens.”

“That won’t happen. It’s very well behaved,” Sherlock risked a small smile and John sighed. 

“You blow them away, you hear? No excuses. I want to see another lap like you just drove, but with a faster lap time.” 

“You said it was beautiful,” Sherlock complained, and John was glad for the smile in his eyes. 

“It was, but so is watching you get naked, but it’s not the same as making love,” he spoke as quietly as he could, but he knew Sherlock had heard him perfectly, because he blushed.

“Get me some water,” Sherlock said loudly, “it’s bloody boiling in here.”

Luke handed him a bottle and Sherlock sucked on the straw until it was empty, keeping eye contact with John while he drank. 

“Fine,” he said once he handed back the bottle. “I’ll do my best.”

“No holding back.”

“No.”

“You make love to that track!”

Sherlock sniffed and pulled on his balaclava, if only to hide his blush from the cameras. “You need to stop with the sex metaphors.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get super softs.”

“Why not?”

“Because you would have to get used to them and you already know how the car feels with these,” he patted the left front tyre which was, together with the others, kept warm with a heating pad. 

“Fine.” 

“And don’t flirt with me while you’re driving.”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was merely observing your physical discomfort.”

“Yeah, don’t do that.”

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his helmet back on. John smiled at him before he went to talk to Jenson about his result. He saw Lestrade talk to Sherlock over the radio, but decided not to listen in. 

Jenson told John that he was feeling confident, but that the heat was in fact disconcerting and that he wouldn’t mind a thunderstorm very much. The wind was strong at the hair pin despite the shelter by the forest so close by and Jenson admitted that he didn’t think he could get a better time than he had. John also told him to stay on his tyres and to try again, trusting that the car could take him where he wanted to go. 

Just then a few drops of rain began to fall and the whole pit lane exploded with noise. Everyone was asking for a report, new tyres, umbrellas, air pressure stats and the next five cars went out on intermediates, getting much lower times than the first fifteen. 

At the end of the first qualifying session, Sherlock was in fourth place. This time, however, nobody voiced any disappointment. 

Lestrade came into the garage and took John and Anderson with him into the back where he pointed at the stats. “We’re not betting on the rain today. Rain’s something to think about for tomorrow. The track is almost dry again and when Jenson and Sherlock go out, the sun will be out. And afterwards I want you upstairs for the briefing.”

“What about the autograph session.”

“What about it?”

“Well, …”

“Do you want to babysit him?”

“No,” John felt his ears go red. “I just want to watch him. He’s so uncomfortable around strangers and it should be … entertaining.”

“You want to babysit him.” Lestrade grinned. “Well, fine by me. The briefing better be brief then, right?” 

John nodded sheepishly before he returned to Molly and Sherlock, finding him sitting in the car, watching the progress of the second session on the mobile screen installed above it. John wanted to talk to him, but he knew that he shouldn’t interrupt him now. He had already done his bit in the first session and he knew that Sherlock used every chance he got to study his opponents. 

They prepared Jenson’s car and John helped unwrap the tyres before handing him a bottle for a final sip of water. He left the pit just when the sun broke through the clouds and John gave Lestrade a confused look to which his boss replied with a wide grin and a shrug. 

“Since when does Lestrade control the weather?” he asked Anderson, who didn’t seem particularly surprised by the turn of events. 

“He’s got a sixth sense or something.” 

John exhaled loudly and watched Jenson’s progress. He was more careful in his out-lap, but started his timed lap exactly as he had the first time around. The first result had left him in seventh place, but his sector times became progressively better and he finished his lap with a perfect 1:17:399. Lewis and Nico had both been faster, but so far, Jenson was in third place. When he came in, the garage erupted in cheers and applause but John kept his eye on the screen, watching Felipe take his out lap slowly, warming up his tyres and getting a feel for the track again. Only then John realised that he had switched to super softs. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and motioned John to put on his head phones. “See what he’s doing in the hair pin?” Sherlock asked and John watched him break too hard and slide through it and catching the car perfectly by steering against the drift and managing to speed up faster than anyone else had managed so far. His sector time showed him to be almost a second ahead of the pack. 

“Regret your decision yet?” Sherlock asked and John shook his head.

“No. I know you can do better than that.”

Is was the final corner that Felipe took too quickly, sliding again, but not on purpose this time, losing the larger part of the gained second again, but still coming in with the best time of 1:16:988.

“Fuck,” John swore and Lestrade piped up. “Easy, John, you know our lines are open today. You never know when the stewards or the stations want to listen in.”

John watched the stats popping up on the screen and realised that all teams had done fairly well now that the rain had stopped and the track had dried within minutes. There had been no major tech issues despite the heat or the short window of rain, and even the results on intermediates were quite good. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat when Sherlock left the garage as the final car of the session.


	88. Chapter Eighty-Eight

The heat seemed even more severe now and John clung to a water bottle while he watched Sherlock’s out-lap, reminding himself to keep his eyes open. This would be the last qualifying for him in a while and he needed to appreciate it for what it was. Being nervous while he should pay attention to the beauty of Sherlock’s driving simply wouldn’t do. 

He stood a little straighter and forced himself to calm down, pressing his own hand against his sternum. To his surprise, it worked. 

When Sherlock entered his timed lap, John’s heart beat was still quicker than usual, but not because he was anxious. He watched the sun reflect off the dark surface of the car, Sherlock’s equally dark helmet giving the impression that he was flying a fighter jet rather than driving a car. When Sherlock copied Felipe’s slide through in the hairpin, John laughed out loud, imagining the other driver’s baffled look. He knew the move had taken off two laps off the tyres, but this was qualifying and he had told Sherlock to give it everything he had. 

Sherlock’s driving made it look easy, though John knew how much pressure his precise style put on him physically, especially in the final corner in which he ludicrously sped up instead of slowing down and somehow managed not to slip by counter steering against the centrifugal force of speeding through the corner. 

“Well fuck me,” John said loudly when Sherlock flew past the start and finish line, driving home a 1:15:034 lap time. Jenson, who had only just gotten out of his car, came to stand next to John and threw his arm around his shoulder, shaking his head. 

“He’s insane.” 

“He won,” John said quietly and Jenson laughed. “He got bloody pole.”

“He did. By driving like the devil.” Jenson nodded. “Oh, lord, I have to go and cry in the corner for a bit. I’m being eaten alive by a bloody rookie.”

John laughed and hugged him. “You all bloody are!”

“Can we stop it with the massacre please?” Lestrade had left the conning board and was now waiting for Sherlock in the garage next to Jenson and John. 

When Sherlock returned to the pit, several cameras followed him. John forced himself to step back and let Lestrade positively hoist him out of the car. Jenson pretended to punch him before he hugged him so hard he lifted him off the ground for a good two inches and the rest of the team crowded in on him. 

John could feel Sherlock’s discomfort at being hounded like this, so he did the only sensible thing and turned around, walking into the back of the garage, waiting for Sherlock to follow him. 

A few seconds later Sherlock freed himself and made his way over to John and took off his helmet and balaclava, sweat running from his hair into his eyes. He wiped his face with a gloved hand before he pulled off his gloves as well. 

“Sit down,” John said quietly, pointing at an empty chair and Sherlock flopped down in it, stuffing his gloves into his helmet. He closed his eyes and simply sat there for a moment, ignoring the chaos around him. When he opened them again, they found John immediately. 

John tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach and handed him his half empty water bottle and Sherlock smiled a private smile before he drank carefully and slowly. 

“That went well,” John said finally and Sherlock almost choked on the last sip of water. 

“You reckon?” He asked with a grin, wiping his face again. 

“Still not the record, but, you know, not bad.”

“I can try again tomorrow.”

John bit his lip so hard he knew it would leave a mark. 

“I’m going to go and get weighed and all that nonsense,” Sherlock finally said. “And then I’ll take a shower and get changed for the autograph session.”

John hated and loved him for being so explicitly inviting when he yearned to touch him, but he kept his hands to himself. “I’ll have to meet Lestrade for the briefing, but I’ll come down for the autographs.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Is Lestrade afraid I might not show up otherwise, or does he think I need supervision?”

“Oh, I volunteered,” John winked at him and walked away, his whole body tense with disappointment that he hadn’t hugged him when he first had the chance. 

“John?” Sherlock had followed him to the door. 

“What is it?” He tried to look and sound professional, though it was exceedingly difficult. 

Sherlock sighed and stepped forward, pulling him into his arms and holding him tightly. For a moment, he pressed his lips against John’s neck and John almost moaned at the sensation, hugging him back fiercely. He knew that the cameras would not be able to pick up that little indiscretion, as Sherlock’s face was hidden from public view, but he still felt nervous about it. His hand wandered to the back of Sherlock’s head and just for a moment he buried his fingers in his damp curls before he had to force himself to step back, knowing that he might not be able to without external force if he didn’t do it then. 

“That was brilliant, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “I am so proud of you.”

He walked away before he was able to tell whether it was sweat or tears that wet Sherlock’s face. 

John was the first to arrive in the designated briefing room in the paddock and he nervously strode back and forth in the restricted space of the room, knowing that by now Sherlock was probably through the post qualifying procedure and on his way to the motorhome and the much needed shower. 

Finally Lestrade came in, followed by Mike who carried a laptop. Anderson arrived only a moment later. Everyone seemed ecstatic and it took them a while to calm down. 

“Right, so, umm. That was pretty amazing.” Lestrade opened the meeting and the laptop. “However, the tyres did take the brunt of it and while the engine and the gear box seem to be doing alright in the heat, despite our worries, we need to think about our options for tomorrow.”

“It was Sherlock’s idea to use titanium,” John was quick to throw in, knowing that the material’s quality was the only thing that held the machinery together. That, and possibly their mutual love of the car.

“He did the opposite of what he was supposed to do,” Anderson piped up and John cringed. 

“Well, I’m sure he’ll take better care of the tyres tomorrow. Today he needed that sacrifice.”

“He copied Massa. How did he do that?” Mike seemed more impressed by the hairpin move than anything else.

“Did you see what he did in the final corner? I thought he was going to crash and burn,” Anderson added, shaking his head. “He needs to cut down on the stunts tomorrow, or he won’t make it through the first half of the race.”

“Why are you saying that?” John asked. “Yes, the tyres have suffered, but the track will be cleaner tomorrow and they’ll be driving more slowly after all.”

“If he makes it out of the Motodrom in the lead, he won’t be going slow for a few laps until he’s safe,” Lestrade cut in. “However, I think all we can do is keep an eye on the wear and tear and see when we need to bring him in.”

“So we abandon our strategy?” John laughed incredulously. 

“Well, we rarely had a driver who was so aware of not only his own car’s behaviour, but also that of the cars around him. If we keep track on the computer and ask him to call the shots…”

“You want him to drive this race on his own terms,” John still wasn’t convinced his boss was serious about his proposal.

“You know he could pull it off.”

“Yes. I do,” John nodded. “I just didn’t think you would.”

John could sense Mike grinning at him as he stared at his boss. 

“And the team?”

“You man the stops while Anderson is at the computer. You get them ready when they need to be ready. If he has a plan, let him share it with us. Better before the race than over the radio, but if needs be, we can adjust accordingly.”

“What if he decides to play?” John chewed on his lip, wincing at the pain from his earlier bite. 

“We tell him not to.”

“It was good entertainment, though,” Anderson conceded. “The fans have been all over his fight with Massa in Silverstone.”

“I wouldn’t mind a safe race,” Lestrade said, looking sternly at John and Anderson in turn. 

“Good. I’ll let him know.”

“Now, Jenson,” Lestrade pointed at the screen. He did well and was more careful with the tyres. It’ll be difficult to get past the top five, but it’s one the best results we’ve had this season, so we do everything we can to make sure he has his chances, too.”

“Two stops?”

“That, or rain.”

“Right.”

“We start light and hope he can pull himself ahead with the rest and then send him in when he’s gained a bit of time. Then we fill him up and hope it’ll last him until we know more about the weather.”

“And Sherlock starts full?”

“I’d recommend 90% full, so he could do the first twenty-five to thirty laps without necessarily needing to refuel, but he can decide which way he wants to do it, if that’s what we all agree on.”

“Fine,” Anderson said, and typed something into his phone. Mike nodded and closed the laptop while John fought the urge to hug his boss. “Thank you, Greg.”

“Good job, everyone,” Lestrade said and smiled at John. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone turn around a bad situation as well as you two have. By the way, Kevin is flying in later today. He wants to watch the race.”

“How is he feeling?”

“Aki says another two months until he can start driving again.”

“And Stoffel will take over in the meantime?”

“He’ll join us in Woking next week and start testing the car for Budapest.”

John nodded, feeling strangely okay with this arrangement. 

“Alright. Anything else?”

“Not for now. You can come down and check on the cars after the signing.”

“Am I dismissed?”

Lestrade grinned. “Off you go.”

John was out of the room before anyone could think of any reason to keep him back and he made a dash for the motorhome, which he reached panting and sweating. Inside, Jenson was sipping on iced water while listening to music on his headphones. He smiled when John stopped in the middle of the trailer, his eyes flitting back and forth between him and the shower cabin at the very end of the motorhome. 

“Yeah, he’s in there.” 

Without thinking about it twice, John walked to the back and knocked on the bathroom door. “It’s me.”

“You know that this is a place for us to calm down and relax and do press work?” Jenson called from the front and John sighed. “I’m not going to …”

The cabin door opened and Sherlock pulled him inside by his collar before closing and locking the door behind him. “Oh,” John felt his breath leave him when Sherlock began pulling up his shirt. “It appears that I _am_ going to.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, pulling John’s shirt over his head before starting on his trousers. 

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Sherlock repeated with a grin, attaching his lips to John’s collar bone and sucking. John felt his legs give in, his hands flying to Sherlock’s wrists, holding on tightly. 

“Wait,” John gasped, fearing that Sherlock would push his trousers down and pull him down with them. 

Sherlock sighed and stopped moving, though his hands were still clutching John’s waistband. “What?” he asked again. 

John inhaled deeply and tried to steady himself before he turned around and carefully opened the door again. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, clearly not considering the fact that the shower cabin was not exactly sound proof and that every little noise could be heard in the motorhome. 

John left Sherlock naked in the shower and tip toed back into the centre of the trailer, which was now deserted. He found a note at the table. _I’m on the steps outside. You have ten minutes before I call the press._ John turned on his heels and crowded Sherlock back into the shower cabin. 

“We owe Jenson,” he whispered and attacked Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock stumbled backwards and almost slipped, hitting the back of the shower cabin with a thud that John was sure could be heard outside. “Don’t move,” he whispered before he stripped off his clothes and stuffed them into the little rack beside the door. “Turn on the water.”

Sherlock’s hands flew to the tabs. John laughed when cold water hit them both and adjusted the temperature to luke warm before he pulled Sherlock close again. 

“There are a lot of things I want to say to you, but they will have to wait until tonight.”

Sherlock kissed him fiercely, gasping for air as the water ran down their faces. 

“I thought of you,” he murmured against John’s lips while his hand moved down to cup John’s arse to pull him against his hips. “I thought of you and I didn’t slip.”

John smiled and took hold of him, blinking against the water and crushing their lips together again, grunting when his sore lip hit Sherlock’s teeth. “Good. That’s good.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open when John began stroking him and he nodded. “Yes, yes it is.”

“Context?” John chuckled and then screwed his eyes closed when Sherlock’s hand moved from his arse to his cock while the other held his head in place to continue the kiss. 

Not even a minute later, they came against each other’s bellies, foreheads pressed together while water still stole their breath on top of everything else, two silent screams caught in two heaving chests. 

John’s free hand moved from Sherlock’s hip to his hair and he kissed him again, tasting blood this time, unsure whether it was his own or Sherlock’s. 

“We’re in so much trouble.” He murmured after he managed to convince himself to move away from Sherlock, washing his hands and stomach before turning around to grab a towel from the rack by the cubicle door. “Sally said I was, but so are you.”

“What does Sally have to do with this?” Sherlock washed up and turned off the water before snatching the towel from John. 

“She said that, at the party.”

“That you’re in trouble, why?”

“Because I am so goddamned in love with you,” John admitted, plucking the towel from Sherlock’s grasp while he was momentarily distracted by John’s words. “But it seems like I’m not the only one who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Sherlock watched John dry himself off before he held out his hand for the towel. John kissed him as he rubbed it across his chest and stomach. 

“Sorry about the kiss in the garage.”

“Exactly. You have no idea how much I wanted you to kiss me properly.” John turned and pulled his clothes from the rack and pulled on his underwear and trousers. “I need a new shirt.”

“Oh, I think I have an inkling,” Sherlock smirked and kissed him before wrapping the towel around his hips and stepping out of the cubicle. 

Thankfully, the trailer was still empty, and John could go and get a new shirt from the stash in the wardrobe while Sherlock put on his set of McLaren casual wear. 

“I need flip flops. I can’t wear trainers in this weather.”

“You’re going to get sunburn on your toes,” Jenson commented from the door and John chuckled. 

“Are you two all … umm … back to factory setting?”

Sherlock huffed derisively and shook the water out of his hair. “Thanks for the break, Jenson,” he said nevertheless and Jenson shot John a surprised look.

John checked his looks in the mirror before pulling down his lip to check on the cut. Sherlock came to stand next to him, looking at John’s reflection. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine,” John ran his hand through his hair and then looked at Sherlock. “Ready to face the fans?”

Sherlock shrugged and then pulled John into a kiss, a kiss that grew more intense than either Sherlock or John had anticipated and it was only when Jenson cleared his throat in a warning manner that they separated. 

“Step away from each other slowly,” Jenson said with a disbelieving grin. “Yeah, three yards of space between you, at least. Leave room for Jesus.”

John and Sherlock both stared at him before they burst into giggles. “Come on, Sally’s going to be here in a moment and you two need to stop touching each other.”

“Fine, yes, you’re right. Sorry about that. I still want flip flops, though. I’ll go and see if I can find some.”

“You’re going to leave me again?” Sherlock asked, actually managing to look upset for a moment before he smiled. “Put on some sun screen.”

John left the trailer barefoot, with a grin on his face and his stomach full of butterflies. The whole day seemed surreal. He walked all the way to the VIP merchandise kiosk behind the Paddock and bought himself some McLaren flip flops, explaining that as long as he wasn’t in the garage, he refused to wear closed foot wear if the weather continued to be so gruelling. 

When he returned to the motorhome, he found that they had already left for the motorsports museum where the autograph session would take place. In an hour, the GP2 race would start and most fans would return to the stands by then. There was a bottle of sun screen on the table and John chuckled and half-heartedly rubbed it on his arms, face and neck before he put on his sunglasses and made his way to the museum.

They had moved the session to the inside of the museum instead of having the fans line up outside and John was glad for the slightly colder air – and so were the fans, as far as he could tell. A few people stopped him and asked him to sign their caps or tickets, but he made it over to the table where Jenson and Sherlock sat, each with several water bottles in front of them, and stacks of pictures to sign and give away to the fans. Sally looked bored, but John knew it was for show. She was entirely focused on the surroundings, aware that at any moment an overly enthusiastic fan might make demands that the drivers were unwilling or unable to fulfil. 

She looked relieved when John joined her. “Congratulations, John.”

“Thank you,” he smiled widely at her. “Though it was mostly Sherlock’s work.”

“In your car.”

“Well, yes,” he scratched the back of his head. 

“Don’t heave all the praise on him! Without your car he couldn’t have done it.”

Sherlock turned around and John feared a cutting remark, but he simply nodded. “I agree.”

“Don’t you have things to sign?” John asked, trying to sound aloof but failing miserably. 

“You found flip flops,” Sherlock seemed impressed and John had to laugh. 

“Turn around, there are fans that want your attention.”

Sherlock huffed and turned around again just when the line was opened and the first fans started for the tables. There were a lot of caps, posters, postcards and tickets to sign, but occasionally fans brought more personal objects like books, personalised t-shirts, art and teddy bears. Jenson happily chatted with the fans, quite obviously very much at home in this situation, while Sherlock sat a little too straight, thanking people curtly for their congratulations and waving impatiently at a group of four boys who clutched their autograph books to their chests, too scared to approach the table.

John stepped forward and crouched down next to Sherlock. “They are you when you were a kid, alright? Your signature and a kind word can change their lives. Give them something to believe in?”

Sherlock looked at John with a frown before his features softened. 

“Kommt her,” he said in German, waving them over. John stepped back, slightly surprised by Sherlock’s almost accent free German as he continued to ask them their names. When the boys carefully placed their books in front of him, finally risking a smile, Sherlock looked at John for just a moment, but John could see that he was strangely touched. 

He took his time to sign for them, asking them about their favourite teams and drivers and commenting on each of their choices with a rather elaborate explanation as to why they were all right by rooting for different teams. “Jenson ist aber auch ein sehr guter Fahrer,” he concluded with a grin in Jenson’s direction, chuckling when Jenson gave him a confused look. The boys giggled and thanked him and were just about to move on when the youngest of them held up his camera. 

There was a sign right next to the table forbidding photographs, but people were snapping pictures with their phones while standing in line and Sherlock nodded at him.

“John, come here. Take a picture of us for him?”

John smiled and walked around the table, waiting until the boys had all lined up in front of Sherlock before he took several photos. He handed the camera back with a wide smile at Sherlock and returned to his place next to Sally, who typed something into her phone.

“Are you going to publish a press release? Holmes human after all?” John grinned and Sally chuckled. 

“Good title, I might use it.”

“I didn’t know he spoke German,” John noted, more to himself than Sally, but Sally looked at him with an amused expression. 

“Well good, because I was wondering if you two had already told each other everything there is to know, including a meet the parents and all that.”

John shrugged. “Almost.”

“You knew a lot about Victor, didn’t you?”

“Not a lot, but enough to know that things couldn’t continue as they had,” John spoke quietly, not wanting Sherlock to hear them and get distracted. His shoulders had lost their stiffness and he smiled more now, engaging in conversations, while Jenson could only do small talk, as not many of the fans spoke more than very basic English. 

The line of fans didn’t seem to grow any shorter and John could see that both Sherlock and Jenson began massaging their hands. 

He walked over to them and suggested that they should take a break, but neither of them liked the idea and even when the GP2 race was announced, the people in the queue stayed where they were. 

It took them another half hour until they had signed everybody’s merchandise and Jenson leaned back, cooling his hand on a water bottle and using his other one to high five Sherlock. “Never in my life would I have believed you would be this patient.”

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish. “I just did what was expected of me.”

“Bullshit,” Jenson grinned. “You enjoyed this.”

John gently touched Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to make it look casual. “Thanks for that. I know it meant a lot to them.”

“I’ve never seen so many people at an autograph session that wasn’t Mercedes or Ferrari,” Jenson noted. “Sherlock, it appears that you are something of an attraction.”

John chuckled. “Well, that is definitely true.”


	89. Chapter Eighty-Nine

Just when they wanted to pack up, an elderly man approached them. He was held back behind the security barrier, but Jenson waved him over and he was let through.

“Sir, Mr Holmes. I just wanted to thank you. My grandsons told me of your kindness.”

“Oh, those were your grandchildren?”

“I know they might have seemed a little overexcited, but Benjamin, the youngest, he lost his dad recently.”

John could see Sherlock go tense, and he stepped beside him, gently touching his arm. 

“You see, my daughter married a race car driver, but the cancer just kept coming back. He drove until it became impossible. Two months ago, he let go.”

John remembered Thomas McMurdo and his words concerning his deceased friend and his own refusal to drive. Finally they began to make sense to him. 

“I’m glad I could help.” Sherlock sounded a little lost.

“He watched you in Silverstone. He said you were like his father. Stubborn.” He smiled and held out his hand. “It was the first time he smiled after the funeral.”

Sherlock slowly took and pressed his hand. “My condolences,” he said belatedly. 

John felt tears well up, but he kept looking at the man whose eyes were bright despite his age. 

“He said you spoke German with him. Where did you learn it?”

“I’m afraid it is rather a requirement in my family to speak it, next to the romance languages. But your English is very good.”

The man smiled. “Prisoner of war. Fortunate to have ended up with the Tommies back then, all things considered.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, clearly out of his depth as to what else to answer. “Well, thank you. I hope your grandsons will enjoy themselves this weekend.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes. And good luck tomorrow.” The man put his index finger to his forehead and saluted him. 

John was very aware of two tears running down his own cheeks and he brushed them away quickly. “Wait,” he called after the man. “Let me just see if I can do something for Benjamin.”

He walked the man, who introduced himself as Robert Fuhracker, out of the building and then called the PR team, requesting five VIP tickets for him and his four grandsons. His request was confirmed a few moments later. “Please, don’t hesitate to say hello when you see him in the paddock.”

“Thank you so much, Mr Watson. I never thought I’d be able to offer something like that to my boys.”

“It’s the least we can do. I’m so sorry for your and Benjamin’s loss.”

The man smiled and shook his hand. “I’m sure my daughter thanks you, too.”

John felt humbled by the experience. Everything about the sport and the race weekend was put into perspective by meeting a man who had gone through hell several times in his life and who had come back from the ongoing GP2 race to say thank you on behalf of his grandchild. 

He wiped is face again and returned to the museum, breathing the colder air deeply before he helped put away the tables. The sun was burning down again as if there had never been any clouds at all, but the heat was more stifling than it had been all weekend. John was glad to be able to spend a few additional minutes inside. 

Sally was on the phone with someone and Jenson relaxed in his chair, slowly sipping cold water. 

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“In the back. I think he needs a moment,” Jenson said. “That was very sweet.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like, to be at a race like this when your dad was a driver,” John admitted, plopping down in Sherlock’s seat. “I organised them VIP tickets so they can watch the race from the paddock tomorrow.”

“Ah, John Watson, the altruist mechanic. A new super hero movie coming to the big screen soon.” 

“Piss off,” John chuckled. “Sherlock was being very sweet with them.”

“I think he made fun of me, but I’m not sure. My German is rubbish.”

Sally chuckled. “No, he didn’t make fun of you. He actually said you’re a good driver and that you deserve to have fans.”

“Really?” Jenson looked pleased. 

“You also speak German?” John noted, shaking his head. “How have I worked with you for years and never known that.”

“John, your talent for observation is occasionally rather limited where it comes to people. Not saying that it’s a bad thing, but you’re really good at observing cars, so some details about other things might escape your notice.”

“Gee, thanks, Sally. You do sound a lot like Sherlock.” John only realised and he wondered whether Victor wasn’t the only friend Sherlock had had when he was younger.

Before he could ask her about it, she took another call and walked away. “See you in the paddock, boys.”

“Do you think he’s okay?” John asked Jenson, who shrugged. “You might know more about cars than people, but you also know him better than anyone else.”

John nodded. “I’ll go and check on him. I’ll see you in the garage for the final tests?”

“Yup.” Jenson slowly made his way to the exit, donning his sponsor’s cap and putting on his sun glasses, looking ready to tackle any challenge that might come his way. 

“Sherlock?” John made his way towards the back of the hall, finding a second, smaller room behind a row of open doors, leading to a collection of car parts. He smiled, thinking of Sherlock’s flat. No, their flat. “Sherlock, are you here?”

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock said quietly, stepping out from behind the case holding the engine of a Ferrari 312T. 

“That’s Niki Lauda’s motor,” John smiled, “from 1975.” 

“It’s so simple,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “No computers, no remote controlled access to the machinery. It’s beautiful.”

John looked at Sherlock, biting his lip and wincing when he was painfully reminded of doing the same during the night. “I got them VIP tickets.”

“I need to win tomorrow,” Sherlock said, looking at John with wide eyes. “If you hadn’t told me to be nice to them, I never ... I wouldn’t.”

John took his hand in his and squeezed, very aware of the security cameras in the corners of the room. “I told you you’d melt.”

Sherlock huffed. “You did.”

“It was good seeing you like that. Relaxed. Normal. Speaking German as if you do that all the time. Being lovely and kind to those kids.”

“But I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t.”

Sherlock turned to him, either not thinking of or not caring for the CCTV cameras, and pulled him into his arms. “Thank you for making me be nice.”

“I didn’t make you, you know?”

“Yes, yes you did.” He held on tighter and John closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against Sherlock’s. 

“We need to let go.”

“I know.”

“We’ve definitely hugged for longer than is socially acceptable for two male friends, even in Germany.”

“I know.”

“Or anywhere, really.”

“I know, John. Shut up.”

John chuckled and squeezed him tightly before letting go. “I’m sorry.”

“You cried,” Sherlock said under his breath, watching John’s face carefully. 

“Well, it was a touching story.”

“And then you got them VIP tickets,” Sherlock seemed to take stock of the last few minutes as if he wasn’t sure whether he remembered them correctly. 

“Yes. I told him to come and say hi if they saw you in the paddock. I hope that’s alright with you?”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

“You keep me right, John Watson,” he said, his voice close to breaking. “You’re the best man I have ever known.”

John swallowed hard. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but he didn’t say them. “Let’s go back and check out the results?”

Sherlock nodded and straightened his shoulders. “Sorry about the kiss.”

“Should I ask for the security footage or will you do that?”

“I’ll do it,” he confirmed and wandered off in the direction of the museum’s office while John stayed in the shade of the entrance, enjoying the noise from the fans as the GP2 race came to an end. In an hour they would have the circuit to themselves again and the fans would crowd around the many merchandise kiosks and the stages of the musical guests, partying away the Saturday afternoon and evening while the teams would work on their strategies and make some last minute changes. 

“Got it,” Sherlock smiled and waved a CD at John. 

“You know that you could have just asked them to delete it all?”

“But this is more fun,” he grinned. 

“You really enjoy living on the edge, don’t you?”

Sherlock just smirked and began walking away. The sun burnt down mercilessly and John wondered how the fans were doing in this heat. It couldn’t be comfortable to sit in the stands in the glaring sun, probably trying to keep hydrated by drinking cold beer instead of luke warm water. 

“Are you drinking enough?” he asked Sherlock once they were inside the circuit, walking through a tunnel towards the paddock. 

“I am.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Probably not.”

Sherlock looked at him, shaking his head in the most judgemental way he could master without squinting.

“Where are your sunglasses?”

“Motorhome.”

“Ah.”

“We need to stop this.”

“What?”

“This conversation we are having.”

“Are you adding more words to the sentences to make it seem like we are actually discussing something important?”

“People might talk.”

“Why?”

“Because of the way we talk.”

“Says who?”

“Lestrade. He said we need to actually say things when we communicate.”

“Oh, like real words and all that?”

“The photo he sent us. I mean, you.” Sherlock shielded his eyes with his hands. “Last night.”

“What about it.”

“He said he took it because we were having an entire conversation without speaking.”

“So what? It’s a good thing that we are on the same wave-length.”

“Oh, don’t say something like that. It’s so nineties.”

John laughed and shoved him playfully. “It’s true though.”

“Maybe. He said he was worried that we, and I quote, _weren’t discussing work_.”

“Is that why you were so amused last night?”

“Yes. He sounded truly scandalised.”

“So he called to interrupt the real thing?”

Sherlock laughed, stopping in his tracks, his face full of amusement and joy. He looked happier than John had ever seen him look in public. “You’re right,” he finally said. “But I think he can’t quite grasp that I am … in a relationship with another human being.”

John smiled. “So he’s checking on us to see whether we are pretending?”

“Possibly also to report back to Mycroft.”

“That’s why you didn’t just tell him to piss off to make him think that we are possibly pretending after all?”

“Quite.”

John shook his head, grinning. “Now, how did the car feel?”

He could see Sherlock visibly pull himself together, and when he began talking, he was all business. They reached the garage just when the GP2 teams had left the track and Sherlock pushed the CD very far down into his bag. Then he continued to talk John through the reactions of the car, detailing even the change in wind direction which John had been almost sure he couldn’t have felt. 

Josh came to take down notes with John, asking Sherlock detailed questions about the tyres. John knew that the tyres were still a major point of worry, but when Anderson joined them with a print out of the engine stats for both Sherlock’s and Jenson’s car, it seemed finally true – John had built a motor that could stand the heat – at least as far as testing was concerned. 

Jenson showed up and brought everyone iced coffee and together they discussed the other teams. Sherlock was very specific about some of the drivers, while Jenson talked about how different the track felt in comparison to the previous years. 

At seven the cars were parked in the parc fermé and Lestrade called the whole team together for a final briefing, talking about the results, seeming almost out his depth as he didn’t have a long list of things to work on during the night as he usually did. “It’s a bit uncanny that everything went so well,” he said when he closed the meeting. “Let’s just hope that our luck will hold until after the race tomorrow.”

“It’s not luck, it’s good work,” Carmen piped up and after a second of silence, the room erupted in cheers and wolf whistles. John leaned back in his seat, smiling widely at the team, nodding his agreement. Everyone had been at their best behaviour so far and there had been no issues with any of the sub-teams. No crashed computers, no broken down ACs in the motorhome or elsewhere, and nobody had been avoiding other team members. He looked at Sherlock who seemed a little overwhelmed with the unabashed self-congratulatory outburst of the team, but a smile tugged at his lips. When he noticed John looking at him, his expression softened and his hands relaxed, which had previously been holding on to the edge of the chair he was sitting on. 

“Right, team. Good work. You’re all deserving of a couple of hours of sleep,” Lestrade grinned. “The paddock bar will be open, but I want you all, and I include myself in this, to take it easy tonight. We’ll be up bright and early. Make it a good night so we’ll have a good day tomorrow.”

More cheers and giddy laughter followed and the room slowly emptied. Sherlock and John were the only ones left, not looking at each other, but sitting in companionable silence. John could feel Sherlock think. 

Just when John wanted to speak up to make sure that Sherlock didn’t lose himself in his thoughts a knock came from the door. John turned around and found Kevin standing in the door, his leg in a thick cast, holding himself up with crutches. 

“God, you look terrible,” John joked and got up, hugging him carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty damn sad that you’re cheating on me,” he answered and Sherlock’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowed and his shoulders tensed as if he was ready to fight Kevin for John. John cleared his throat to get rid of the heat that suddenly settled in his stomach. “Sherlock, come here.”

Sherlock slowly rose and made his way towards them, clearly seizing Kevin up. Once he stopped in front of him, he stood tall and lifted his chin, looking down his nose at him. He inhaled deeply and John knew that he was about to say something to Kevin that could only be offensive, so he nudged his side, standing closer than was strictly necessary and smiled up at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is Sherlock.”

“Congratulations,” Kevin said with a smile, but there was an underlying sadness in his voice that John could understand only too well.

Sherlock held out his hand and Kevin shook it. “Well done. And well done on getting John to work in the garage again.”

“Well, that was entirely his choice.”

“Liar,” John grinned. 

“Do you want to sit down somewhere and get a drink?” he asked Kevin, knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t like it, but wanting the two of them to talk to each other anyway. “Then we can tell you all about the progress we’ve made.”

“John, I think I should …” Sherlock tried and John turned around to him. 

“It’s early, Sherlock. And Kevin is here now, so we can talk now instead of tomorrow when we’ll all be too busy to have a proper conversation.”

Kevin frowned, looking from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock. When Sherlock blushed lightly, he began to grin. “So it is true.”

“What is?” John asked, knowing already what Kevin was referring to. 

“You two. Lestrade was a bit weird when he talked about you two and I was wondering what that was about. And then Sherlock’s reaction when I came in ...” He grinned widely. “Yeah, let’s go and get drinks. I want to hear all about that new car you built.”

Sherlock followed them grudgingly, and he immediately ordered a pint of iced water which he proceeded to sip on for the first ten minutes of the conversation. Kevin told them about his injury and the subsequent surgery, the metal in his leg and how he hated watching his own car being driven by someone else. “No offense, Sherlock. You are an incredible driver, but it’s so strange not being the one driving the car and watching the race on the telly.”

“It’s easier to be here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, absolutely. I couldn’t watch another race from afar. But you’ve been making great progress, I hear. Building a whole new engine and gear box? Did some sort of spirit possess you or something?”

John chuckled and took a sip from his own water. “No. But I made a deal. Well, actually, Sherlock made a deal. When Lestrade asked him to drive, he said he wanted me to build him a car. And I did.”

“So you did. And then he won a race in it and got pole this weekend.” Kevin looked at Sherlock as if he was trying to decide how to speak to him. Sherlock did his best to ignore him, but John could tell that he was itching to get away. 

The silence got awkward after a while and John reached out to squeezer Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hey, Sherlock, do you want to go?” 

Sherlock nodded and was up in a second. For a moment he seemed to believe that John would come with him, but when John stayed seated, his face fell. “It’s the race,” he said by way of apology. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Kevin said and Sherlock nodded curtly, attempting a smile and failing spectacularly. 

John watched him almost fall over his feet as he left the bar as quickly as he could without running. 

“Sorry about that. He’s a bit …”

“Yeah …” Kevin nodded and turned back to John. 

“It’s good that you are here,” John said, trying to tell himself that Sherlock hadn’t just fled because he was about to tell him that there was a good chance that he would replace him on the team. Him or Stoffel, but as things currently stood it would be Kevin. 

“How has the team been?”

“Good. We’ve been making good progress on the pit stops. If it weren’t so hot we’d be even faster.”

“It does feel a bit weird. Leaving and suddenly the team is doing so well. Even Jenson is so much better than he has been in ages,” Kevin said, nursing his beer. 

John pursed his lips. Somehow he felt that he couldn’t really explain to him how profound Sherlock’s impact on his life and work had been, not in the way he had been able to tell Jenson. “It was a bit like a fresh start, I reckon. Building a new box from scratch and allowing ourselves to just go with it. And Jenson picked up on that, I think.”

“And he’s an incredible driver. Why has he just shown up now?”

“Lestrade and Sherlock had some sort of deal. He was testing the cars’ weaknesses on a weird, free-lance basis and just happened to be there when the news of your accident broke.”

“So, right time, right place?”

“Well, I think he would have asked him anyway, but Sherlock is a bit … well, he has some issues with some people and refused to work with Anderson.”

“So you had to jump in?”

“Stoffel was out, too. There wasn’t really a choice.”

“So you and Sherlock, you know each other how?”

“Met on that same day.”

“You’re joking.”

“No,” John grinned. “We just clicked.”

“Isn’t it a problem?”

“What?”

“You and him being involved?”

John chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine it any other way anymore.”

“But he’s driving your car.”

“I know. I should be freaked out, but I am not. Somehow he managed to make it okay.”

“Once I’m back, will you go back to the design room?” Kevin sounded hopeful and John smiled. 

“I don’t think I can, now that I have gotten my hands dirty again.”

Kevin smiled. “Good, because my contract is running out at the end of the season and I want to drive in one of your cars before I leave.”

“What?” John stared at him, his ears burning. 

“I haven’t talked to Lestrade yet, but things have not been great and you know that. I thought Jenson would retire after the end of this year, but it seems that he’s got some of his fire back.”

“Where would you go?”

Kevin smiled. “There are a few options. Obviously I am starting to regret my decision now that we’ve made such a leap, but I think I need a second chance as well and I don’t feel that I am truly getting it here. I had a lot of time to think about it all while I was in hospital,” he added, shrugging. 

John felt his heart in his throat. He couldn’t believe that Kevin would leave voluntarily and make room for Sherlock. 

“You hope they’ll take him on permanently?” Kevin asked, clearly reading John’s thoughts in his face. 

“Well. Erm,” John was embarrassed by how single minded it made him seem, but he nodded. “I was hoping that he could stay as a test driver, but if you left …”

“I thought about this a great deal but I have to be honest with you. If your cars remain stable and I get to drive one and win, I might reconsider.”

“I can’t alter your engine much, though.”

“Right. But you can implement the changes that can make my car better.”

John nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Are you being cynical?”

John flushed, feeling wrong footed and simultaneously terrified that he might unconsciously boycott Kevin’s car once he began working on it. “No.”

“Good. Now stop worrying about it all. You have a race to think about tomorrow.”

“Are you staying in our hotel?”

“Should we move things there?”

“If you’re okay with that?”

“You could just call him, you know?”

“He won’t answer.”

“He is a bit peculiar, isn’t he?” Kevin asked, finishing his drink and getting up. 

John handed him his crutches and shrugged. “He’s a genius.”

Kevin laughed. “Well, the two often go together.”


	90. Chapter Ninety

They had a car take them back to the hotel where Jenson and a few other team members sat in the bar downstairs, chatting quietly. When they saw Kevin they immediately made him sit down and ordered a drink for him, pestering him with questions about his leg. 

John smiled and told him that he would go check on Sherlock and then return, and Kevin nodded and held up his glass to him. 

When John knocked on the door he felt nervous. While he was both excited and saddened by Kevin’s decision, he worried about what his presence would do to Sherlock on the night before the race.

Sherlock opened the door, wearing nothing but a towel, his hair wild and his skin still flushed from the heat of the shower. “Oh fuck,” John murmured when he stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself. “I promised I’d be back down in a moment.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “A moment is a very relative amount of time.”

John leaned against the door and simply watched Sherlock for a while as he walked back into the room, tried to get some sort of order in the stacks of paper he had spread out across the bed, tugging at his hair absentmindedly, before he finally looked at John again.

“Are you coming or going?”

John marvelled at Sherlock’s demeanour. He was entirely unselfconscious, as if it didn’t matter to him whether he was fully dressed or naked, and the towel didn’t seem to matter apart from the fact that Sherlock was in a hotel. John was almost sure that he would be naked if they were in Baker Street – at least if it ever got that hot in London. John dearly hoped that it would. 

“I rather feel like coming and staying,” he admitted, moving away from the door. 

Sherlock smirked at the pun and returned to sorting his papers. “Give me a moment.”

“No. Absolutely not,” John said and pulled him away from the bed, pressing him against the desk until he sat down on it and John could step between his legs. Then he pulled him into a kiss, moaning when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him to pull him closer. 

“I didn’t plan on this,” Sherlock murmured against his lips and John chuckled. 

“Well, lucky me, then, to catch you looking like that.”

“What do I look like?”

John shook his head and kissed him again, more urgently now, thinking that he wouldn’t be returning to the bar downstairs anytime soon. But he couldn’t just leave and not return. Not only would it be rude, but it would mean that everyone would know the reason for his absence. “Shit,” he turned his face away, breathing heavily against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to at least say good night.”

“Nothing is keeping you from doing that.”

John pulled back and looked at him. “Only this,” he whispered and pushed the towel away from Sherlock’s erection. “And this,” he took Sherlock’s hand and guided it between his legs, moaning at the pressure when Sherlock squeezed him gently. “And this,” John dragged his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip, leaning in again to kiss him. 

“I understand,” Sherlock said sheepishly when John pulled back again. “But it would be more sensible to go down, say good night, and come back. By the time you return I will have finished the paperwork and we can use the bed.”

“Or we could go to my room.”

“I need to take care of that,” Sherlock indicated the bed. 

John sighed and pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest. “You are just so unfairly attractive.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I have been called many things, but that one is new.”

“It’s true, though. It makes it impossible for me to be rational and not want to ravish you.”

“Ravish, huh?” Sherlock had definitely been aiming for sarcasm, but he sounded breathless and altogether too turned on. 

“This is what I mean,” John looked at him, shaking his head. “Unfair.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “You’re not much better yourself.”

“What? I am not the one freshly showered, wearing only a towel and pretending that he’s not at all affected by all this.”

Sherlock squeezed him again and John almost lost his footing. 

“I didn’t expect you until later. And this?” he tugged him closer by his flies. “This is just as unfair. You, coming in here, looking at me like that. All relaxed and self assured and in control.”

“Nothing of the sort,” John breathed and Sherlock grinned. 

“Well, not after I touched you.”

“ _I_ touched you.”

“Same difference.”

John sighed. “True.”

“Go, John. And come back quickly.”

“Come with me?”

“What?” Sherlock seemed honestly shocked by John’s proposal. 

“They’ll see that you had a shower and if you put on new clothes they might accept that you just needed a moment.”

“You’ve been gone for more than ten minutes.”

“They don’t know how long it takes you to dress.”

“Or, you know…other things?”

John grinned. “Get sucked off? Fucked?” Sherlock cringed and John laughed quietly. “Well, they will definitely not expect you to come downstairs with me if that happened.”

“Because it didn’t. It doesn’t.”

“Exactly. Come and do that for me? Please?”

“Is he upset?”

“Who, Kevin?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Is that what you were worried about? Jealousy?”

“I don’t know how to talk to him.”

“Small talk, you know? Just be civil to him, ask some questions, answer some. Do that thing you do with the other drivers?”

“I can try?”

“He doesn’t have to like you, you know?”

“You want him to like me.”

“What I want and what you want doesn’t need to be the same thing.”

Sherlock pointedly looked down on them both and John playfully slapped his arm. “Let’s go?”

Sherlock sighed, still obviously nervous about the prospect of talking to Kevin, but then he began dressing half heartedly while John did his best to will his arousal away. The prospect of what lay ahead of them both finally helped him calm down. He also pointedly did not watch Sherlock getting dressed and he didn’t look at him before they were about to leave the room. Then he kissed him quickly, wanting nothing more than to stay and undress him again. 

It was Sherlock who reminded him that it had been his idea to go down, so he inhaled deeply and thought of the race and of Sherlock’s future. By the time they had walked down the stairs it was the likely scenario of Sherlock’s future with McLaren that made him smile so that when they entered the bar, he was able to pretend that he had done his best to talk Sherlock around to coming back down and nothing else. 

“So, how far in your drinks are you?” John asked and Jenson guiltily looked at the beer he’d been sipping on.

“It’s my second and it will be my last.”

“Oh, drink as much as you want,” Sherlock smiled. “I’ll have one less driver to worry about tomorrow.”

Kevin watched Sherlock with an indifferent face, but John knew that it was a mask, much like Kimi’s usual lack of expression, and that he was probably taken aback by Sherlock’s comment. 

Jenson, however, just laughed. “It’s not like you ever had to worry about me being a serious threat to you anyway.”

Sherlock smirked and ordered tap water. 

John was very much aware that Sherlock didn’t order anything for him as well and he loudly ordered a second one, but with mint and lemon, just to watch Sherlock reconsider his own choice. However, even though John knew he was tempted, Sherlock decided against adding the request to his order and pointedly looked at John when he received his drink first. 

John was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him in public, just to shock him, and he quickly turned away from Sherlock to wait for his drink. 

While he waited, he hoped that Sherlock would finally start speaking to Kevin, but it was Jenson who saved the day once again. He simply addressed both of them when he was talking, asking them both questions which led to a discussion on tyres in which Jenson and Sherlock disagreed and Kevin took Sherlock’s side. It was a purely subjective conversation, so John couldn’t really add anything, but he smiled against the rim of his glass when Sherlock animatedly talked about his testing and Kevin nodded, adding a few bits and pieces to Sherlock’s impressions. 

Jenson shook his head with a smile. “You young, innocent drivers. I’m a dinosaur. Listen to your elders.”

That had everyone laughing and finally Sherlock held up his glass for Kevin to touch his to it and they drank to driving on slicks. 

When Jenson wanted to buy another round, Sherlock made a small unhappy noise and Jenson immediately turned away from the bar, looking at Sherlock with concern. 

“Water?”

“Orange juice?”

“No sherry in it.”

“Ugh, I would never.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in distaste.

“Good.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s leg, only realising that he was doing it in the presence of Jenson, Kevin and a few other team members in the room when he was doing it. He pulled his hand back, feeling Sherlock’s eyes settle on the side of his face, his close attention raising a blush to John’s cheeks. He rolled his eyes at himself and decided that it didn’t matter. 

“To the team,” he raised his glass of water, and the new non-alcoholic drinks joined his in mid-air. “The team,” they echoed and John watched Kevin, who simply smiled and took a drink. 

Carmen walked in, looking fairly exhausted, but when she saw the drivers and John sit by the bar, she came over and joined them. Anderson followed soon after, and while John was having a lovely time chatting, he knew that Sherlock wasn’t comfortable. He had already stayed for much longer than John had anticipated, but he knew that it wouldn’t last.

However, Sherlock waited until Carmen and Anderson had finished their drinks before he cleared his throat and announced his retreat. He held John’s gaze for longer than necessary, and when Carmen winked at him and Jenson gave him a questioning look when he didn’t move, he decided that following Sherlock would be as inconsequential as him touching his leg. 

Nevertheless, he waited for a few moments before he said good night, remembering that Sherlock had been fairly adamant at sorting through the paperwork on his bed. He wondered whether he should just ask him to come down to his room, but strategically, Sherlock’s room was better for making love and talking. 

He said good night to the grinning faces of his colleagues and then he jogged up the stairs, slightly breathlessly knocking against Sherlock’s door.

Sherlock took his time opening it. The bed was empty now, though John was very much aware that Sherlock had placed the condoms and the lube and tissues back on the night stand after hiding them during the day. 

“Hey,” John said, kissing Sherlock quickly, fleetingly.

“Just so I can prepare mentally,” Sherlock started, moving towards the window, putting a distance of a few feet between them, “tell me what your plans are?”

“Shower, sex and sleep?”

“Don’t forget your exercises.”

John frowned. “Exercise, shower, sex and sleep?”

“No surprises?”

John’s face softened. “No surprises. Thanks for coming along.”

“I don’t see what good it did.”

“We’re here to work,” John explained, taking his shirt off. Sherlock feigned disinterest, but he was watching him from the corner of his eye. “And you showing your face is important for the team. There are always people who watch for that kind of thing, discord in a team, and Kevin’s absence and your success are just a perfect cannon fodder for rumours.”

“You seem to think that your hand on my leg was just as obvious.”

“Well …”

“I thought about it,” Sherlock said, almost impatiently stalking towards him and opening his trousers before turning away and walking to the window again. “You and Jenson touch a lot. You embraced Kevin several times and you don’t seem to care much for the general concept of personal space.” 

“Neither do you,” John grinned. 

“Only with you.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you can touch me more in public, because, statistically speaking, you are being more obvious by not touching me than if you distributed your physical contact evenly.” 

John’s eye brows rose. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I have watched footage from races a few years back and what you did to me after Silverstone appears to be perfectly normal.”

John thought about that and finally nodded. “Well then,” John smiled, pushing his trousers down, stepping out of them but keeping his pants on. “Do you want to work or do you want to help me with the exercises?”

“Considering that despite what I just said I won’t get to touch you much tomorrow, I will opt for the latter.”

John chuckled and walked up to him, pulling him close and waiting until Sherlock finally held him properly, both arms around him, his hands digging into his back. “I love you,” he said quietly. 

Sherlock held him tighter for a moment before he let go. He didn’t need to say anything in return. His body-language was answer enough, and John looked at him for a moment before he kissed him quickly and moved away. Then he produced Aki’s exercises from his bag and chose the final page. It was focusing less on core strength and more on flexibility, and due to the weather, John didn’t need much time until he was warmed up, sweat running down his back after a few experimental push ups. 

Sherlock had sat down on the bed, watching him quietly. John could tell how tight his trousers were, and for a few minutes he managed to talk himself into going almost beyond the point of manageable pain as he stretched, knowing that he had this effect on Sherlock. 

He was exhausted when he stopped, simply dropping down on his back on the floor after the final exercise and Sherlock, instead of offering help, lay down on his belly on the bed, his head hanging over the edge, so he could watch and talk to him. 

“You said shower next.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move again.”

“Were you trying to impress me?”

“No.” John frowned, pretending to be scandalised.

“You did more than you were instructed to do.”

“I want to get better.”

“Well, I understand that, but…”

“I want to be able to hold you down and not be afraid I might hurt myself,” John admitted and suddenly found that he was in charge, even though Sherlock was the one free to move above him. 

Sherlock blushed and licked his lips. “What else?”

“I want to be able to carry you. Hold you up. Throw you into the loch next time we’re there. All those things you can do to me and which make me regret my injury more than ever before.”

“What else?” Sherlock was breathless and John wondered what his hands were doing out of sight. 

“I want to be able to make love to you without holding back.”

Sherlock whimpered and John knew it was time to get up. 

“I want to …”

“Yes?”

“I want to …”

“John, what?”

“I want to see you come just from imagining what I would do to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and John licked his lips. He noticed the small movements now, not obvious, but clearly there once he paid attention. Sherlock was rutting against the bed, slowly, deliberately and John knew he was already close. “What would I do?”

When Sherlock opened his mouth, a moan escaped instead of a word, and John smiled widely at him, dragging his left hand across his chest. “Tell me,” he demanded.

“You would … when we got home, you would push me against the door, hold me,” Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed. “You would hold me against the door while you pull up my shirt. You’d kiss me. And you’d bite,” he moaned again, his eyes squeezing shut even more tightly as if he was trying to push away the vision or focus on it even more closely. “And then you would open my trousers, but you would still hold me.” His breathing was laboured and he was very obviously moving on the bed now. 

“Don’t come on the bed,” John interrupted him, watching as his eyes flew open, blinking a few times to focus on him, but then his eyes settled on John’s hand, pressed against his own chest and his mouth opened in shock, gasps falling from his lips as he pressed his hips hard against the bed. 

For a moment all was quiet, but then Sherlock looked at him with a sheepish expression. “Too late for that,” he confessed.

John laughed, squeezing himself through his underwear, wondering if Sherlock would still be up for more after this and if he himself was strong enough. 

“Shower?” Sherlock suggested and John chuckled. “You had one just an hour ago.”

“A little more than that and a lot less of you in it.”

“Do we have to sleep in my room tonight?”

“No.”

“But the bed …”

“Towel,” Sherlock explained with a small grin. “I wasn’t entirely unprepared.”

John finally pushed himself up and then helped Sherlock off the bed, shaking his head at him. “You surprise me every day.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock smiled and pulled the towel with him as he stumbled into the bathroom. Once more, they found themselves standing toe to toe in the shower cabin, the only difference to their usual routine being that Sherlock wasn’t hard. 

John swatted his hand away when he tried to touch him, and when he tried again, John took hold of Sherlock’s hips and turned him, before he moved his hands up to his shoulder blades, pushing as hard as he dared, forcing Sherlock to lean over and leave his arse exposed to the water and John. 

Sherlock was tense when John ran his index finger down his spine and slipped it between Sherlock’s buttocks. When he pressed down, Sherlock’s legs bent and he went down a little with it, his breath hitching. 

“May I?” John asked and Sherlock turned his head and nodded. 

“Please.”

John used a little of the shower gel to make moving easier and pushed one finger in, waiting for Sherlock to tense up, but he stayed calm. John slowly pushed in deeper and when he thought Sherlock would be okay with it he added another finger. 

“Was that your incentive?” Sherlock suddenly asked and John chuckled and pulled his fingers out, leaving Sherlock to gasp loudly. He washed his hand before he turned off the water and began soaping Sherlock up, not caring whether he had done all that himself an hour ago. 

“Yes,” he said at length. “Well, that, and you helping me get through them.”

“But I haven’t always,” Sherlock said, turning around to stand up straight again. 

“I don’t have your imagination, but the thought of being strong again made up for that.”

“But you are strong,” Sherlock said, stopping John’s hands from spreading more soap across his body by gently holding on to his wrists. “You are incredibly strong.”

John felt reminded of the moment after the qualifying when Sherlock was suddenly entirely earnest with him. He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat Sherlock’s words had conjured up. “Sometimes not strong enough.”

Sherlock shook his head and gathered him up in his arms, wrapping himself around John and pressing one hand against his head, almost cradling him. 

There were no words for a long while and John felt entirely safe and secure in Sherlock’s arms, wondering if he had the same effect on him sometimes. He dearly hoped he had.

Slowly Sherlock pulled back, detaching himself from John limb by limb, kissing him gently and thoroughly before he began soaping up John. When he came to his arse, he reached lower than usual and pressed his index finger against John’s after. For a moment, John lost the ability to breathe, having forgotten how good it could feel to be touched like this. 

He had bottomed only very few times in his life, and more often than not he had not enjoyed it as much as topping or just getting off through oral sex or the hands of a partner, but right then he wondered what it would feel like to have Sherlock inside of him.

“Is that okay?” Sherlock asked, and John shivered despite the heat. 

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Can I do more?”

John nodded. “Anything you want,” he breathed and then cleared his throat to say it again, audibly this time. 

“Bed?” Sherlock suggested and John straightened to turn on the water again. Just a minute later, they had both washed off the remainders of the soap. They towelled each other off quickly, laughing at how silly and turned on they were at this moment and finally made it back into the bedroom. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said and gently shoved John towards the bed. 

“Do you want to go all the way?” John asked, breathless once again. 

“Will you let me?”

“How do you want me?”

“What’s best for your shoulder?”

“Oh my back, I think.”

Sherlock nodded. “On your back, then.”

“Do you really want this?” John asked, still not quite sure himself. 

“Do you?” Sherlock asked back and John inhaled deeply before he nodded. 

“Let’s try at least?”

“Definitely smarter this way, as I will be sitting down all day tomorrow.”

John laughed and carefully lay down on the bed, pushing a pillow under his head to be able to see what Sherlock would do, but for a long while he simply watched him, stroking his returned erection slowly but deliberately. 

Finally, when John thought he would have to initiate the act, Sherlock took the lube and condoms and placed them on the bed next to John and John’s abandoned towel before he sat down on the bed with crossed legs, pushing John’s legs apart and pulling hard, tugging him closer to himself, until he could easily reach between his legs. 

John slowly spread his legs further apart, watching Sherlock lick his lips breathlessly. “I’m all yours.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and picked up the lube. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”


	91. Chapter Ninety-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for mydogwatson, who made me giggle so much with their comment on chapter ninety.

It was so hot in the room that John barely felt the lube, but he definitely felt Sherlock’s fingers as he tried to do to him what John usually did to get Sherlock ready. He massaged him with gentle pressure, pushing harder every now and then, probing. At first he seemed a little unsure, but slowly his movements grew more daring. 

After a while, he pushed one finger in, slowly, carefully, as if he was afraid John might ask him to stop at any second. John forced himself to breathe evenly, but it was difficult considering that Sherlock sat cross legged and naked and still partly wet on the bed before him, his erection remaining happily stiff, twitching when Sherlock pushed beyond his second knuckle. John couldn’t keep quiet after that.

“Please, Sherlock, please.” 

“Hmm?” He looked at him, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth in concentration, his eyes bright with the excitement of it all. 

“Kiss me,” John murmured, having changed his mind about what he wanted from Sherlock in that moment.

Sherlock looked down on his hand, still attached to John, and then he leaned forward and down in what doubtlessly had to be an uncomfortable position, as his legs were still crossed and John’s legs lay across Sherlock’s thighs. Still, he managed and kissed John slowly, his finger pushing in all the way now. “Am I doing alright?” Sherlock asked against John’s lips and John smiled and kissed him again. 

“It’s been years since anyone has done to me what you are doing to me now, and it never quite felt like this,” he explained. “No one had your fingers.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “Can I do more?”

“Yes, yes, please,” John nodded and kissed him again before Sherlock pushed himself back into a sitting position and pulled his finger out. He wiped his hand on the towel and added more lube. 

“You’re a good student,” John smiled down his own body, feeling himself twitch in anticipation. Normally he would lose his erection when penetrated, but this time he stayed as hard as he had been when they had left the shower. 

“You taught me well.”

“Me and the internet, huh?”

Sherlock blushed and John laughed quietly. He had to think of the day in Scotland when Sherlock had edged him on top of the hill and a flash of heat shot through him just when Sherlock pushed two fingers in. He spilled over across his stomach, blinking stupidly at the betrayal of his own body before he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked both amused and guilty. “Sorry,” he whispered and John jerked under him, driven to distraction by the pressure of his fingers.

“It’s okay,” John tried to calm himself down as much as he wanted to reassure Sherlock. “It’s not the end.” He carefully squeezed himself, grunting at how sensitive he was, but he knew that he would stay hard, and that his real orgasm still lay before him. “Keep going.”

“You sure?”

John nodded, trying not to let his mind project more grafic images that would arouse him even further. “Yes.”

Sherlock pushed his fingers deeper, waiting for a moment before he turned his wrist and circled his fingers inside of John, making him gasp and blink hard against the unfamiliar mix of pleasure and tension.

“Can I?” Sherlock asked, pulling out again and John just nodded, wordless and out of breath. 

Sherlock used even more lube, making John bite his lip to keep from telling him that he had already used more than enough, but he couldn’t bring himself to criticise him for being extra careful and gentle with him. He was sure that when Sherlock had experimented on himself, he would never have been patient or particularly gentle and he had admitted that the thought of lube hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he had learned from John and probably hurt himself in the process when he had been too impatient, never admitting it, of course, but very likely nevertheless. 

The fact that he obviously tried to make this as comfortable for John as possible almost brought tears to his eyes. 

“You’ll make yourself bleed again,” Sherlock said quietly and John let go of his bottom lip, blinking rapidly. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

John pushed himself up on his elbows, feeling a light burn in his shoulders but nothing as bad as it had been weeks ago. “Nothing. Go ahead.” 

He watched as Sherlock carefully pushed three fingers in, holding on to his hip for support so he could simultaneously pull him closer. John gasped, and then tried to breathe through the stretching. He felt overwhelmed for a moment, so he held his breath instead, feeling his whole body clamp down on Sherlock’s fingers.

“John. Don’t, just ... breathe, John. Please!”

It was the desperation in Sherlock’s voice that brought John back. He clearly thought he had done something wrong and didn’t know how to make it right. 

“Talk to me,” John asked and Sherlock looked momentarily confused, as if John had taken his words right out of his mouth.

“It’s, umm, a bit tight.” Sherlock seemed at a loss of what to say, making John giggle and relax a little. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll fit.”

Sherlock looked embarrassed and John reached out for him, pulling him into another kiss and causing him to push in all the way, making John grunt. “Give me a moment,” John said against his lips. He closed his eyes and simply breathed, remembering Sherlock’s first time. 

“Okay, now move, slowly, in and out.”

Sherlock did what he was told, watching John’s face closely. Eventually, John felt himself relax and he nodded emphatically. “Do it.”

“Are you sure that you are ready?”

John smiled and gently touched his wrist. “Yes.”

Sherlock cleaned his hand with the towel again before he took the box with the condoms. It took him a moment to be able to open the box and when he wanted to pull out one sachet, several fell out. 

He had blushed scarlet when he had shoved them all back inside and pushed the box away. John could see his hands shake when he tried to open the sachet so he held out his own, smiling widely at Sherlock when he gave up and pressed it against his palm. 

“Nervous?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted, waiting with bated breath until John had pulled the condom out of its foil and he could pick it up and carefully put it on himself. Again John watched him do something for the first time and he was hyper aware of Sherlock’s fingers, probing and testing and being too careful and unsure where they were usually the opposite. 

“I love you,” he said quietly, the words slipping from his lips unconsciously. 

Sherlock stopped all movement and looked at him with a strange expression John couldn’t quite place, though the blush was still very prominent. 

“I still don’t understand,” he finally admitted, looking away again, playing with the edge of the condom to distract himself from his insecurity. 

“You don’t have to,” John assured him. “Just know that I do.”

“I do,” Sherlock nodded, frowning before his expression softened and he finally looked at him again. “I do,” he repeated, more self assured now. 

“Now, go to it before I change my mind,” John smirked and repositioned the pillow under his head. “We don’t have all night.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, you know I can drive a race on very little sleep.”

“Yeah, not this time. This time you get your eight hours of sleep.”

Sherlock checked his watch. “Well.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“I’m not, I’m just stating …”

“Shut up and fuck me,” John interrupted him and Sherlock gave him the most disapproving look he could manage considering his ears and cheeks were still flushed and he had been full of wide-eyed awe just a moment ago.

He picked up John’s legs and knelt in front of him, tugging until he could place John’s feet against his shoulders, leaving enough room to see and for him to move. With one hand he opened him up and with the other he guided himself against John, who squirmed and closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the stretch. But Sherlock had stopped moving and seemed unsure of how to proceed. 

“Push, just push.”

“What if I hurt you?”

John smiled. “I would tell you. Right now I am fine.”

“I haven’t started yet,” Sherlock remarked sheepishly and John chuckled.

“Just push.”

Sherlock took hold of John’s right leg and used it as leverage to pull himself closer, his eyes growing wide when he breached John and suddenly found himself two inches deep inside of him. 

John reigned in his breathing, getting used to the stretch of Sherlock inside of him. “Okay, go on.”

Sherlock’s breathing grew quicker by the second and when he pushed in deeper, he exhaled in a drawn out moan that made John moan, too. 

“Oh god,” Sherlock said loudly, making John chuckle. “Oh god,” he said again, closing his eyes for a moment. “How am I supposed to move like this?”

John grabbed Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, overstretching his shoulder lightly, but feeling much more self-assured about his strength now after the workout. “Slowly,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock tried but didn’t get far before he pushed in again, leaving John breathless and amused. 

“Let me,” he asked and spread his legs, waiting for Sherlock to make room so he could wrap them around Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock wouldn’t be able to go as deep as he currently was, but if he was afraid to move, John needed to be able to make him see that everything was fine; more than fine, in fact. 

Carefully he pushed his hips down, causing Sherlock to almost slip out. Then he pushed up, meeting Sherlock who had realised what he was doing half way. “Oh god,” Sherlock said again, pressing his face against John’s shoulder. “How can you … how do you?”

“Yes?” John asked, feeling himself relax around Sherlock, the pressure giving way to a much better feeling. 

Instead of an answer, Sherlock gasped with every breath and eventually John felt his teeth tugging at his skin. He sped up lightly, grunting, and feeling Sherlock bite down harder. “Careful. You don’t really want me to have to get stitches in the middle of the night.”

Sherlock dragged his lips across John’s chest, pushing himself up a bit so he could kiss his skin, suck on a nipple, only to moan loudly when John moved even faster. 

“Don’t,” he begged, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t come yet.” He looked at him again, both hands holding on to John’s shoulders from underneath him, locked together with very little room to move, “I’m not ready,”

“It doesn’t matter if I do,” John reached out to grab his hair and he pulled him down into a messy kiss. 

“If you come I’ll come and I haven’t gotten the chance to get used to this,” Sherlock explained, surprisingly coherent between small breathless moans. 

“I can’t promise.”

“Please.”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh god!”

“When did you become so religious?” John gently mocked him and Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John cocked his hips and all Sherlock could utter was a string of curses that he would forever deny having spoken out loud. 

John chuckled and kissed him again, and his thoughts inevitably went back to their first time and just as before, the memory touched something in him that was too strong to ignore. This time, he truly couldn’t stop himself as he came, surprising Sherlock, who watched him come with spellbound fascination before his eyes went wide and he came inside of John, dropping down on him, shaking and jerking into him again and again, his hands holding on to John’s shoulders for dear life.

They both needed a long moment to regain their breath and full control over their limbs. Finally, Sherlock tried to push himself up, failing twice until John helped him a bit, nudging him to pull out while he was still hard and grunting at the loss of pressure. 

Sherlock simply dropped down on him again and John wrapped his arms around him tightly. “Are you okay?” he asked, kissing his cheek. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

“Good. Am I too heavy?”

“No,” John smiled. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah.”

“Reverse is more comfortable, I think.”

“I agree. But I still enjoyed it.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Did you really?”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. 

“And you’re really okay?”

“It was interesting, feeling you come.”

“Interesting, huh?” John chuckled and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder until he looked at him, half rolling off him. 

“I’m glad we tried.”

John nodded. “Yeah.” 

Sherlock fished for the towel and cleaned John’s stomach, making him grunt when he carefully wiped at his cock. He smiled at his reaction, licking his lips. 

“I don’t understand how you could last that long every time you were in my position. It’s just so much pressure and heat and …”

“I love it,” John admitted, “I really, really love it.”

For a moment they simply lay there, breathing against each other’s skin, too hot to touch each other too much but still close enough to almost do so.

“Are you tired?” John asked after a while, feeling quite boneless. 

“Not really,” Sherlock admitted, gently letting his fingertips dance up and down John’s chest and stomach. 

“What can I do to make you tired?”

“You just came twice without losing your erection in between.”

“What kind of answer is that?” John asked, chuckling. 

“I can’t possibly think of sleep now that I know that it is possible to do that.”

“Oh god.”

“What?”

“You found a new test subject, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s feral grin made John’s heart beat faster. 

“You’ll not experiment while we’re here.”

“Fine. After all, we'll be back in London soon.”

John rolled his eyes but grinned. “Now. What can I do?”

“Talk to me. Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know yet.”

“Is that really what you want me to do?”

“I remember that I felt comfortable falling asleep to the sound of a voice when I was a child. Mostly it was McMurduo in the kitchen and then I got in trouble to sleeping on the bench there.”

John smiled and kissed him. “I need some more water first,” he said and rolled off the bed, disposing of the dirty towel and the condom and cleaning himself up properly before he returned with two glasses of water. He handed them to Sherlock before he switched off the light and sat on the edge of the bed, taking his glass again.

They both drank quietly and Sherlock placed the glasses on the night stand once they were emptied, pulling John onto the bed and against him before he turned around, letting John spoon him. “Tell me about your first race,” Sherlock asked, gently stroking John’s wrists with his thumbs. 

John smiled and kissed his neck before he settled against him and began to talk. “My first race was a bicycle race after school. I got in trouble for running two red lights.” He smiled at the memory. “But I won.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and squeezed his hands for a moment before he returned to John’s wrists. 

“The first cart race was when a friend got us all to try our hands at it at his birthday party. I stayed longer and got to race a few other kids who were doing it regularly. I was only half bad. A lot of my allowance went into that place after. I don’t think I ever told my parents.”

“You must have been extraordinarily talented,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Why?”

“Because most drivers have the full support of their families. They take them to races, to tracks, buy them cars, let them race.”

“Well, apart from some families, right?” John hugged him tightly for a moment before he loosened his grasp on him. “I loved doing it and I began reading books, and there was this garage down the street from our flat and I convinced them to teach me.”

He waited a moment for Sherlock to comment, but he stayed silent and continued stroking his wrists.

“My first rally was the Uddeholm Swedish Rally, a snow race. I did terribly, but I loved every second of it. I returned the next year and our team made second place. I came home with the trophy and it took my dad a few visits to notice. I found him looking at it one day and I told him what it meant to me. He told me to make sure I’d finish university.” He frowned at the memory, remembering how betrayed he had felt. 

“Tell me about the race.” Sherlock sounded tired, but John wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t just angry with his dad. 

“It was a gorgeous day. London never has that kind of weather in February. Clear skies, sunshine, snow everywhere. The stuff of fairy tales. Me and Clark had done a few tests, but it was the first race I was signed up for. There was ice everywhere and yet I had complete control of the car. I never thought it could feel like this, driving down that forest road, and managing to overtake other cars. I never really thought that I could do something like that and it seemed so simple then. I fell on my arse after the race, because the tyres were properly spiked and wouldn’t slip, but I forgot that my shoes weren’t.”

Sherlock chuckled quietly. 

“I wasn’t the only one, though, thankfully. I think it happened so often that Mercedes eventually did a tyre ad with Mika a few years back.” 

“What about your win?” Sherlock moved his hips, if only a fraction, and pressed himself closer. John wondered whether he would get any sleep like this, the room hot and Sherlock’s skin even hotter against his own. 

“We had been doing Hungary three years in a row and we had never gotten close to the podium. But in 2002 I was allowed to work on the car and we did really well. The motor was a thing of beauty and for the first time I felt that I truly understood the car. I knew how far I could go, so I did all I dared and in the end we came in a whole forty seconds before anyone else. From that day on I insisted on working on the cars, too, branching out and learning about formula cars, getting in touch with Lestrade for the first time in 2004. I met Jenson then, but I was mostly consulting, being so busy with races. And there’s no winter break in rally driving, so I came down to Woking only for a few weeks at a time, working on some designs and motors and driving races with a few Formula One drivers for shits and giggles. Never the real thing, though. It was too expensive and my insurance didn’t cover the cars. I remember Jenson trying to talk me into taking his car for a spin. That was a long time before he worked at McLaren. I think he had just started driving with BAR and was being bullied by Jacques Villeneuve. But he came down for the test track sometimes and they did tests at Silverstone. 2005 I had a decent season. I made third overall and our team won the construction world cup. I beat Schumacher in a friendly. I’ll never forget that day. He was driving his personal Ferrari and I drove a Jaguar I had been working on with Eddie Jordan. And I was faster than him.”

He grinned at the memory, letting himself wallow in nostalgic pride. 

“Are you still awake?” he asked quietly, noting that Sherlock hadn’t moved at all in the past few minutes. 

Instead of an answer, Sherlock turned around in his arms, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Yeah.”

“You really shouldn’t be,” John smiled and kissed his nose, watching as his eyes flutter closed. 

For a few minutes, he continued talking quietly, outlining different races as he remembered them, moments of triumph and happiness and when he was sure that Sherlock was deeply asleep, he carefully extracted himself from his arms and opened the window wide, watching the street-light-lit surroundings and the clear sky full of stars. A lot would depend on tomorrow’s race, but now he could be certain that if he should wake up with a hard on, he wouldn’t have to be upset or feel guilty about it. He smiled when he leaned forward to place his arms on the sill, still feeling the ghost of Sherlock's lovemaking. It was slightly uncomfortable, but he cherished the feeling. To see him so nervous and so trusting moved John more than anything else. 

When Sherlock stirred, his hand stretching out as if to reach for him, he returned to the bed, the window once more wide open and somewhat cooler air filling the room, and he lay down face to face with Sherlock, watching him sleep for a while before he was too tired to keep his eyes open. 

He woke up once, pleasantly surprised by a dream he had had. For once, he hadn’t dreamt of crashing or hurting or being in any kind of danger, but he had remembered his first win and the pink champagne which had melted the snow below the podium. He woke up when his body jerked lightly as he dreamt of jumping on the podium and he smiled and moved closer to Sherlock, wrapping one leg around his thigh and falling back asleep contented.


	92. Chapter Ninety-Two

For the first time that weekend the morning was somewhat less than unbearably hot. John turned to lie on his back, the sheets pleasantly cool against his skin. 

“Morning,” Sherlock said gently, setting down a cup of coffee on the night stand. 

John stretched, yawned and rubbed his face before he looked up at Sherlock, who was already showered and dressed and looked unbelievably put together for this time of day. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven,” Sherlock smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You seemed so tired I did not want to wake you up.” 

He waited until John had sat up before he handed him the coffee. “I ordered breakfast, so you don’t have to go yet.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John smiled and took a sip of his coffee. “How did you sleep?”

“Quite well, thank you.” 

John had to smile. Sherlock could be incredibly rude, but in standard conversations his formal upbringing still clung to his speech without him realising. 

“When did you get up?”

“A while ago. I wanted to review the times again.”

“Whose times?” John yawned again.

“Everybody’s.”

John chuckled and put the coffee down again. “Why are you dressed?”

“It made it easier to ignore you,” Sherlock admitted. 

John gave himself a moment to enjoy the implications of Sherlock's words before he sighed and nodded. “I’ll have a shower and get dressed then.”

Sherlock nodded, his lips pressed together as if he tried to keep himself from saying something. Then he picked up John’s cup and finished the coffee, watching John climb off the bed. 

The water did the rest of the work the coffee hadn’t yet managed to do. When he was done, he felt awake and alert. He quickly brushed his teeth and forced his hair into some sort of presentable shape before he returned to the bedroom. 

To his surprise Sherlock stood in the middle of the room apparently waiting for him. 

“Hey,” John said, feeling slightly nervous at Sherlock’s calmness. 

“Kiss me?” Sherlock asked. “Like you said you would?”

“Oh,” John realised what he was asking before his body reacted rather strongly. “Now?”

Sherlock nodded. “Please?”

John slowly stepped closer, very much aware of his growing erection which pressed against the towel around his hips, but Sherlock didn’t look at anything other than his face. 

When he took Sherlock’s left hand in his to press a kiss to his knuckles, Sherlock’s breath hitched. 

John smiled at him, moving slightly closer and eventually standing up on tip toes to reach his lips, his own brushing Sherlock’s very lightly, a mere shadow of a kiss. 

John wet his lips, fascinated by how vividly he remembered that first kiss despite the flood of emotions that had surged through him. He consciously changed the kiss to make sure that Sherlock had no doubt as to what they were doing. He kissed him again, with a little more pressure this time, smiling against Sherlock’s lips when he sighed and slowly moved his head down so it would be easier for him to reach. 

Then he pressed a soft lingering kiss to his lips, feeling Sherlock begin to tremble. He pulled back to watch him closely. Sherlock’s eyes had fallen shut and he was clearly waiting for John’s next move. 

So John grew more daring, gently taking Sherlock’s face between his hands, stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones before he kissed him again, nipping at his lower lip this time. Sherlock’s lips opened with a sigh and John took it as an invitation. He slipped his left hand into Sherlock’s hair and tugged him down gently, making it even easier to kiss him before he let his tongue slide along Sherlock’s upper lip and then inside, finding Sherlock’s tongue immediately, which betrayed his pretended innocence. He was long used to John’s caresses and met him midway. 

They both moaned loudly and Sherlock’s hands settled on John’s hips, tugging him closer, leaving him breathless. 

For a while they continued the kiss as it was, slow, gentle, teasing, but eventually Sherlock moved his hands from his hips to John’s back and held him tightly, one hand against his injured shoulder and one against the small of his back. 

When John began to deepen and speed up the kiss, Sherlock reacted by leaning in closer, moaning against his lips, eventually moving away from them, kissing John’s cheek and jaw and then his neck and John felt his world tilt a bit, knowing that any second now Sherlock would pull back in shock, overwhelmed by his own reaction to the kiss, and John wouldn’t know what to do with himself then. 

To make sure that Sherlock wouldn’t pull back this time, he boldly reached between their bodies and opened Sherlock’s trousers, chuckling at Sherlock’s gasp, and pushed them down. Sherlock’s hand moved lower, too, and he tugged the towel away, leaving John naked, exposed and hard. 

“If you had let me, I would have done this,” John whispered, returning his lips to Sherlock’s. “God, I would have made you come so fast,” he smiled, pressing his hips against Sherlock’s, their cocks trapped between their bodies. “When you went into the bathroom, I imagined what you would do to yourself.”

Sherlock gasped and began rutting against him, prompting John to grab his arse in order to guide his movement against his own. 

“And I wanted so badly to be the one doing it to you, touching you. Making you come.”

Sherlock whimpered, his legs shaking as he sped up. “I selfishly wanted you for myself, you and everything you had to give,” he kissed Sherlock again, deeply, feeling him tremble when he slipped one hand between their bodies, taking hold of him. 

“I knew you would look beautiful when you came,” he said against his lips, tugging gently, too turned on to properly stroke him while he moved against his own knuckles. 

“John!” Sherlock gasped and strengthened his grip on him. 

“Beautiful,” John repeated, watching him closely as he tipped over the edge, pulsing against his fingers. 

Sticky and wet as they were, John wrapped his fingers around himself and brought himself off while gasping against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock still held on to him tightly, allowing John some stability as he came against his stomach, ruining his shirt in the process. 

For a moment he continued to stroke himself, but then he pulled up his hand and wiped it across Sherlock’s chest, giggling at the scandalised expression on his face. “I’ll pay for the cleaning,” John said with a grin, kissing Sherlock once again. 

Sherlock pulled him hard against his body again and John giggled weakly. 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said eventually, pulling back and running his thumb along his lower lip. “It was exactly what I needed.”

“Sorry about the shirt.”

Sherlock looked down on himself and shrugged. “Trousers, too. They’ll be so pleased to clean more of my clothes.”

“You could wait and bring them to London and get them cleaned there?”

“True,” he said and began pulling at his clothes. He had barely stripped down to his socks when John grabbed his hips and drove him backwards towards the bed, giving him a shove to make him sit on the bed, and immediately climbing onto his lap once he sat down. 

“Now,” John said, smiling down on him. “I know it’s late and I know you did not plan on taking any other memory into the race than that last kiss, but I think it won’t be inspirational enough.”

“How can it not be enough?” Sherlock asked, leaning back on his arms, putting a bit of distance between his face and John’s. 

“Because you want to fight,” John said matter-of-factly and pushed him to lie on the bed, immediately taking his wrists and pinning them to the bed above his head. “So fight.”

Sherlock lay very still for a moment, watching John with an almost blank face, but then he arched up, trying to shake John off without having to resort to putting pressure on his shoulders. 

John laughed and remained where he was. 

So Sherlock tried to turn sideways, failing when John put more pressure on his hips.

Finally he tried to free his arms, but John held on tightly, nipping at his earlobe and chin, chuckling at Sherlock’s poor attempts to shake him off. 

“Do it,” he encouraged him, pressing down a little harder, making Sherlock grunt. 

“We’ll be late,” Sherlock remarked as he tried to pull his arms down in order to separate them and make it harder for John to put his whole weight on his wrists. 

“Not for the race, we won’t.”

“Well, we can’t just show up a few minutes before the race starts.”

“True. And it really depends on you whether we’ll be late or not.”

Sherlock huffed. “No it doesn’t. You’re the one holding me down.”

“If you are trying to talk me into giving up, you’re chasing the wrong car.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to hide a grin. “I could wait until you are so turned on that you can’t help yourself,” he proposed. 

“I’m good for a while,” John lied, already feeling heat collecting in his stomach. 

“As I said. I’m very patient.”

“Liar. That’s not how you race.”

“Sometimes it is,” he smiled sweetly, his eyes running along John’s arms. 

John shivered as if it had been the feathery touch of his finger instead of just his gaze. 

“See, it’s already working.”

“But I want you to fight,” John pretended to be upset while he was really triumphant that Sherlock seemed patient and willing to actually wait for his prize. 

“Oh, I am fighting.”

John increased the pressure on Sherlock’s wrists slightly. 

“Careful there, I still need those.”

“I won’t break you,” he smiled and leaned down to breathe a kiss against his lips. Sherlock exhaled loudly and arched up, trying to get John to kiss him properly. 

“Come on,” John encouraged him teasingly. 

Sherlock bit his lip and began pushing harder, but still not hard enough to get John to budge. 

“That’s not how you win,” John said quietly, shaking his head in pretended disappointment. 

Sherlock relaxed his arms and watched John for a long moment. Then his look of concentration softened into a wide smile. “Fine,” he said, suddenly pushing his arms apart so that John had to lean forward to still keep his hold on his wrists and suddenly they were face to face and Sherlock’s smile turned into a grin and he spread his arms even further, forcing John down until their chests touched and John couldn’t escape his lips. 

Sherlock kissed him, hard, needy and with so much enthusiasm that John was ready to give up on holding him down, but then he remembered that this was supposed to be a challenge and turned his head away, breathing hard and fast. 

Sherlock, however, unwilling to let it go, kissed his cheek, his jaw line and then his throat, instinctively finding the spot that still stood out as a faint bruise and he sucked again. 

John immediately let go of his arms in order to push himself away, but Sherlock’s arms were around his shoulders in a second and he held him down, finally using his strength to control John’s movement. 

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John gasped, unbelievably turned on and very aware that there would be absolutely no way to hide his throat in this weather. 

Sherlock took his time to nuzzle his neck and return to his mark and lick him there, making him squirm. 

Finally he released him, smiling sweetly at John who took hold Sherlock’s arms again and held them down across his chest. He could feel Sherlock’s erection pressing against his arse and his own sat heavily against Sherlock’s stomach. 

“We'll be late,” Sherlock said calmly and John inhaled deeply, trying to make his body get up and leave Sherlock. He needed to go to his room and get ready. There’d be a free practice and then the driver’s parade and pre-race interviews and they would need to be in the paddock for the first briefing in twenty minutes. 

“No we won’t,” John said and let go on Sherlock’s wrists and moved up along his body until his erection dangled above Sherlock’s face. “Not if you hurry.”

Sherlock gave him a disapproving look but then he grabbed John’s arse, squeezing and pulling simultaneously, and wrapped his lips around him. 

“Jesus,” John hissed, realising he was still sensitive from earlier and not quite ready for the renewed attention paid to his cock. Nevertheless, Sherlock’s lips around him, stretched and wet, were enough to get him close within a couple of minutes. He tried his hardest not to move his hips, scared of choking him.

It was just before he came that he realised that Sherlock had removed one hand from his arse and that Sherlock’s rhythm was not quite in line with John’s anymore. When he looked over his shoulder to find him tugging at himself with something bordering on desperation, he fell forward and came, feeling Sherlock swallow around him. 

John pulled out carefully, finding that Sherlock had tears in his eyes, but that he was grinning up at him, his thumb wiping at his lip before he pushed it into his mouth and closed his eyes, spurting across his own stomach. 

John was fascinated once again by how gorgeous Sherlock looked naked – and now with the addition of gleaming moisture against his stomach and chest, rising and falling with every breath he drew. 

He dropped down on the bed, curled around Sherlock’s head, knowing that they were both playing with fire but not managing to care enough to get up and run. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. 

“For what?”

“For making us late?”

“Do you think you were alone in this?”

John chuckled. “No. You’re just too bloody gorgeous, so it’s your fault, too.”

“You should go,” Sherlock said, half turning his head to be able to kiss John. John moved closer and closed his eyes against the kiss. 

Finally he managed to pull back and get up, a little wobbly on his feet, but stable enough to pull on the bathrobe and hide the worst traces of their lovemaking. 

“John?” Sherlock called him back after he had collected his things and was about to open the door. 

“Hmm?”

Sherlock looked at him with a strangely sad expression for a few seconds before he shook his head. “I’ll see you in the paddock.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He was lucky to not be spotted on his way to his room and he jumped into his shower, washed as quickly as he could just to pull on his clothes while he was still half wet. He tried to flatten his hair as he jogged down the stairs, finding Lestrade standing against a car with crossed arms. John made sure to approach him in a way which would hide the love bite. 

He still blushed before his boss had even said a word. 

“Morning, John.”

“Sorry for running late.”

“You’re not the only one,” Lestrade said and nodded in the direction of the entrance of the hotel. “Sherlock was the first one up and he’s already done his homework for today. Said you’d need another hour of sleep or some such. I didn’t ask.”

John sniffed and awkwardly scratched his neck. 

To his surprise, it was Jenson who walked out of the hotel door next, not Sherlock. 

“Morning,” he said sheepishly and John gave him a questioning look. As an answer, Jenson’s eyes settled on John’s neck and then on his face again and he gave him a telling look. “I overslept. No particular reason.”

“That’s what happens when you give them the evening off. Unbelievable.”

“It just got a bit late with Kevin, that’s all.”

“Get in the car, the both of you. Sherlock should be out in a minute.”

And he was. He walked out of the hotel like nothing was wrong, a pile of papers under his arm which he handed Lestrade with a neutral expression before he got into the car, too, nodding politely.

“Morning.”

Jenson snorted and John grinned, but nobody said a word when Lestrade got behind the wheel and took them down to the circuit. 

It was crowded, noisy, hot and humid and John felt his heart in his throat when they arrived. The sky looked angry and as if it might start to rain any time now. The cool morning was giving way to a special kind of humid heat which had them all sweating before they had entered the briefing room. 

“What happened to you?” Carmen asked when John sat down next to her and he remembered his little but obvious problem. 

“Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat and staring ahead. 

“Oh, come off it. We’ve all been there. Though I must admit, this one is impressive.” She chuckled and began to rummage through her bag just when Lestrade opened the briefing. 

He found a concealer make-up stick sitting next to his hand when he looked down next. “You can’t show up in the pits like that.”

John sighed and took the pen. “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” she smiled. “We gotta look out for each other, right?”

“Quiet in the peanut gallery,” Lestrade shot into their direction and they both grinned like school kids caught exchanging notes.

As soon as the briefing was over, John was off to find a bathroom. He did get a couple of funny looks as he covered the love bite as best he could, but he was impressed with the result. When he wanted to return the make-up stick to Carmen, she shook her head. “Keep it. You never know when you might need it again.”

John pocketed the pen and thanked her, asking if he could do anything to return the favour. She simply laughed, shaking her head. “Nah, I'm good. This whole experience is already a pretty damn fine reward.”

John leaned back, feeling incredibly impressed with Anderson's assistant, wondering if he could do anything to help her rise through the ranks.

Half an hour later they were all dressed in fireproofs and setting up the garage for the final tests. The results looked very promising and the statistics came back clean, making John relax a little. He had not noticed how strung he had been since seeing Lestrade in front of the hotel, but now that he could breathe freely again, he realised how worried he had been despite it all. They fired up the car and let the computer connect and transmit data. 

Sherlock came into the garage to look at the numbers and John came to stand next to him, keeping his distance, but standing close enough to talk without being overheard. 

“What were those papers you were working on yesterday?”

“Homework I got from Lestrade.”

“The papers you brought with you this morning.”

“Precisely.”

“Race related?”

“No.”

John frowned but kept his eyes on the screen, hyper aware of the cameras that were everywhere. 

“What, then?”

“Just something to keep in mind in the long run.”

“Tests?”

“Something like tests, yeah.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Sherlock looked at him and smirked. “Not now, no.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight is already reserved for other activities.”

John chuckled and looked down on himself. It wasn’t a race suit, but it wasn’t very different either. 

“Right,” he said and turned to go.

“Nice cover up,” Sherlock said, clearly mocking him. 

John’s hand immediately found the spot on his neck, but it felt alright and when he checked in a mirror, he found that the makeup was holding up nicely. He shook his head smiling as he walked away from Sherlock. 

Slowly, the chaos turned into something more organised and John began doing check-ups on the cars and the tyre stacks and spare parts. Last race weekend, around this time, he had been standing on the wall alone with Sherlock, while they waited for the race day to properly begin. This time he was in charge and couldn’t fathom how he had simply abandoned the garage in Silverstone.

“You feeling alright?” Mike handed John a bottle of water and when John looked over his shoulder, he saw Aki nodding at him, remembering that he had wanted to ask him what his plans for him were. “I’m fine, really.”

“Good.”

“The car seems to be doing alright, despite the heat. Let’s see how she behaves on the track.”

“Different air pressure, possibility of rain. This could get very exciting.”

“Yeah, especially since he told me he’s not good in rain.”

“Ha, I bet he meant it comparatively. So nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Sherlock said as he walked past them, pulling on his helmet before climbing into the car. 

John made his way over and crouched down next to him, wincing when he finally felt last night’s activities in his muscles. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face but he guessed he was grinning. 

“Just see how she’s doing when you accelerate. The brakes seemed to be okay, but I want to know if she’s still as fast as she was yesterday.

Sherlock nodded and cocked his head to signal John to get out of the way. 

“Git,” John said through the radio when Sherlock entered the track.

“Idiot,” Sherlock shot back and half the garage laughed out loud. 

“They all heard that,” John sighed and flipped off the team behind his back, hiding his action from the cameras. 

“They were meant to.”

“Stop flirting and get on with it,” Lestrade logged himself into the conversation. “Sherlock, I want you to imagine that all the corners are wet. See if you can do that.”

John found a screen to watch his progress and smiled as he hit the brakes much earlier than he would have otherwise, sped up less quickly and took the ideal line to the millimetre. His time was almost half a minute slower than his qualifying time, but he did exactly what Lestrade had asked of him.

“Well done. You can in this lap,” Lestrade said before he turned to Jenson. 

“In-lapping,” Sherlock confirmed belatedly. For the next few corners, he did what John had told him to do, testing the acceleration and returning to the garage with a calm demeanour. He seemed to be so in control and relaxed that John wondered whether he had missed anything, but then his phone chimed and he found a text from Sherlock, asking him to meet him in the hall. 

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock said loudly before John had even closed the door behind him. 

“What is?”

“The car. The track. It’s all just beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Thanks for this morning. It really cleared my head.”

“I hoped it would.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you needed to feel me,” John said under his breath. “You needed to know that I am real. And because now you know, you’re free to think of something else.”

“Oh, I am also thinking of you,” Sherlock smiled, “but you’re right. Everything is as it should be.”

“Even if it rains?”

“Even then. It’s incredible. I’ve never felt so good in a car.”

“You are talking about these 3 laps you just drove, right?”

Sherlock nodded, his smile infectious. “The noise of the fans, the track itself, the car. I never really let myself take it in. Not in Silverstone and not here. Not until now.”

“Did my calling you names add to your experience?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Yes, it did.”

“Does this mean that you want me to continue doing that?”

“To confuse the stewards and media? Why not.” 

“I can do that,” John grinned and leaned forward, realising too late that his body was simply doing what it felt like doing while his mind was too occupied with Sherlock’s happiness to think about what he was doing. 

Sherlock instinctively lowered his chin, receiving his kiss with a flutter of his eye lids and a sigh which made John forget his worries when suddenly a loud cough made them jump and immediately step back from each other. 

Daniel Ricciardo and about half the Red Bull team had somehow managed to almost silently appear in the hallway and they were all watching John and Sherlock. 

Nobody said anything for a moment and John was about to try and explain when Daniel’s face lit up in a triumphant grin and he turned to one of his mechanics. “Pay up,” he said, while the rest of his team started walking again, laughing and leaving the driver and the mechanic behind. 

“What is going on?” John asked carefully, suspecting that Daniel’s grin did, for once, not necessarily mean good news. 

“Just a little bet we had going on since Silverstone.”

“On what exactly?” John asked, feeling his ears go red. 

“On you two, having something going on.”

“That’s not very specific, is it?” John asked and the mechanic nodded his agreement. 

Daniel huffed. “Right, let me think about what it was exactly that I said.”

“You said,” the mechanic piped up, “that they are doing it. They were just kissing. And not even properly.”

“You heard the man,” John nodded. 

“I’m not wrong though, am I?” he asked. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging. I bet a lot of money.”

“That’s distasteful.”

“To donate to Minus18,” Daniel added and John shook his head. 

“What is it with you always being better than anyone suspects already?”

“I just thought it was a good time to bring it up. The team never believed that you two had anything going on apart from a fine ass car.”

“Wait, the whole team?”

“Jupp.”

“Even Sebastian?”

“He didn’t participate. I don’t think he wanted to think about you guys at all, outside of racing, I mean.”

“Well, if that’s how things stand, then you better write a check,” John said and turned to go. 

“Why me?” Daniel asked, clearly confused after being so sure of his suspicion. 

“To Minus18,” John said and took Sherlock, who had been standing unmoving and as inconspicuously as possible behind him, by the hand and pulled him back towards the garage.


	93. Chapter Ninety-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, today I am posting an extra chapter, because I am in a celebratory mood. McLaren had a wonderful race today in Spielberg and even though Alonso retired, Jenson drove his best race in years and managed place 6, which means 8 important points in the championship. :-)

“What’s Minus18?” Sherlock asked John when they were back among the team, noise and organised chaos surrounding them. 

John smiled and squeezed his arm before stepping away a bit. “An Aussie organisation supporting LGBT teenagers and children.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, turning back as if to belatedly talk to Daniel. “That’s both very disconcerting and very nice of him.”

“Oh god, do you think anyone else has a bet going?”

“I wonder why they have the time and energy to think so much about something that is none of their business,” Sherlock said quietly. “If I were them I would have a look at my traction control.”

“Do they have a problem?”

“Hard to tell whether they still do, but they definitely did yesterday.”

John watched him for a long moment, realising that because of their relationship and everything else that had been going on, he had almost forgotten what Sherlock’s brain was capable of and how he noticed and memorised even the smallest details.

“Will you be okay?” John asked, wanting to make sure that Sherlock wouldn’t mind the invasion of their privacy too much. 

“Yes, I will be okay,” Sherlock said with a small smile, sounding entirely serious, and even appreciative of John’s asking. John wasn’t sure why he was surprised, but he had expected him to be annoyed by his question. 

Sherlock obviously picked up on his thoughts and frowned “What?”

“It’s just, I keep asking you that and I thought it might begin to annoy you.”

“John, you are the only person in my whole life to have asked me this question while really meaning it. I will never be annoyed by it. Except for, well, you know, when you ask it too often and the answer is obvious.”

John grinned. “Right. I’ll be ... umm ... over there,” he pointed in a random direction and walked away, trying to focus on the job ahead of him instead of the implications of Sherlock’s answer. Inhaling deeply, he set out to organise the mechanics and crew, finding Lestrade smile at him from across the room with something like pride. 

He was still busy talking over tyre choices with the team when Jenson came over to inform him that the drivers’ parade was about to start. 

“Don’t make too much fun of him, please,” John asked and Jenson laughed. 

“It really depends on how you define fun.”

“You know what I mean. This is so important to him.”

Jenson looked at him with a small frown before he shook his head, his usual smile back on his face. “I see.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“He helped me last time, and now it’s my turn.”

John didn’t have a clue what he was on about and simply stared at him. 

“He held up the field so I could catch up and now you want me to help keep the field back so he can drive ahead.”

“I never … I didn’t. I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, I must have projected that then.” He took a long sip from his bottle before he turned back to John, who was a little flabbergasted. “Come on. It’s a good plan.”

“It’s not mine, though.”

“It could be,” Jenson waggled an eyebrow and John shook his head, grinning. 

“I can’t possibly ask you to do that. You’ve done so much for him already. For us. For the team. You drive your race and he drives his.”

“I will, but I might just happen to concentrate on keeping my place instead of pushing forward.”

“That’s not how you drive.”

“It might be how I drive today.”

John frowned, wondering whether he should ask Lestrade for his opinion. And Sherlock? Sherlock wouldn’t like the plan. 

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it?”

“I am,” John huffed. “I just don’t want you to take any chances. You’re important, too, you know?”

Jenson chuckled. “I’m old. I’ve played this game so often. I had a good run in Silverstone and I want to push and I want to be on that podium again, but I know that this season won’t bring the change we need. At least not to my car. He’s the prodigy. I just do what I have done since I came here. I’ll try to get the car through the race without losing bits of it on the way.”

“You know the car is better than that.”

“John, you’re not usually that optimistic.”

“Yeah, that’s your job.”

“You’ve done great work on the cars last year, but you saw what happens when you actually build one instead of creating a digital model. You know how much testing they need and you see so many ways of making it better. Sherlock’s car is fantastic, but even that runs with the baggage of the past three years. You know Sherlock could be much better in a Ferrari or a Mercedes.”

“But you did really well all on your own last weekend. And now you’ve got the new motor.”

“Which might singe my butt if I don’t pay attention, yes.”

“It won’t. You’ll be careful.”

“But that’s exactly it. I would love to not be careful.”

“You want his car?”

“No. I want my own car. Made by John Watson. But I know it’s not a priority at the moment. And I know you need him to win. So I’ll do my best to have his back.”

“Lestrade wouldn’t like this. Neither would Anderson.”

“I know. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“What if Greg asks you to push?”

“I’ll tell him that I am trying.”

John turned around, away from the crowd, grimacing at the thought of going against his boss’s orders. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll be fine. And in the end, it will help the team.”

“Sherlock won’t like it.”

“I won’t like what?” Sherlock had appeared out of nowhere and John cringed, turning around to see Jenson smile up at him. 

“Frilly underwear,” Jenson told him without batting an eye lash and handed John his water bottle. “Let’s go Sherlock. We have some waving to do.”

Sherlock gave John a questioning look but John shook his head. “It’s fine. Go. Enjoy.”

He watched the parade on the screen. Each set of drivers sat on the backrest of the backseats of an old-timer convertible. Most drivers were all smiles, but as always, Kimi kept his face neutral, sun glasses hiding his eyes as he waved slowly at the crowd. 

Sherlock sat next to Jenson, his hand raised up just high enough to count as a greeting gesture, his eyes also hidden behind shades. Jenson’s enthusiastic waves made up for Sherlock’s minimalistic approach to the driver’s parade. While he waved, he happily chatted at Sherlock, who didn’t seem to answer once and John wondered what he was thinking right then. He hoped frilly underwear wasn’t involved. 

John turned away from the screen to go over the equipment again, testing his radio and checking the weather report twice. There would be a short lunch and then they would be off. His heart beat heavily against his ribs when he mentally checked off his to do list, finding that all there was left to do now was to check on Sherlock’s car and to make sure that everything was in place before he’d go ahead and get the pit stop team together. 

He did not see Sherlock until lunch in the paddock and while Sherlock sat next to Jenson and Kevin, he did not look up from his food or participate much in conversation. John ate as much as he could stomach before he left the room again to seek refuge from the heat in the motorhome. The skies were still cloudy, but it did not look like rain. 

A half empty cup of tea sat on the table and he smiled, remembering Sherlock’s clumsiness. The files they had scrambled to save from the liquid. His heartbeat against the palm of his hand as he tried to calm him down, so conscious of touching his chest, and being so close to him. He sat in the chair Sherlock had sat in that day and closed his eyes, pushing all intruding thoughts away and focussing on the impending race. 

He was ripped out of his mental exercise when Carmen entered the trailer. “There you are. Let’s go, John. We’re all ready. Get your fireproofs on.

John blew out his breath through pursed lips, knowing it would calm him down a bit, and went to the mechanics trailer to get changed, feeling more relaxed now, but still a little worried about Jenson’s proposal. Of course the plan wasn’t bad, but after John had expressed his wish for the race to be fair, the idea seemed strangely subversive.

Upon entering the garage he was bombarded with last minute questions by his team members, microphones were stuck in his face, cameras went off and John wondered whether all of this was part of why he had been so scared of working in the pits, alongside his terror of causing an accident. He remembered Sherlock’s terrified face in Silverstone and he forced himself to calm down and patiently answer the media’s questions. 

Eventually he excused himself and walked over to the car. Sherlock stood by Molly, slowly sipping water while his eyes seemed fixed on a far-away spot. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock blinked a few times before he focused on John. “I could do with a cigarette.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Maybe not,” he gave him a quick smile before he returned to his blank expression. “I’ll be okay,” he added then, leaving his answer open for John’s interpretation of whether he meant the craving for a cigarette or the race itself. 

“Good.” John checked Sherlock’s suit, the radio, and the hardware that would connect him to the car. Eventually he patted his arm and nodded. “You’re good to go.”

“I’ll see you on the other side?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“I guess I can’t expect more than that,” John chuckled. “But do take care of yourself.”

Sherlock smiled, quickly, blindingly, and John felt his heart in his throat. “I’ll keep away from the walls.” 

John wanted to kiss him, badly, but all he could do was squeeze his hand, hidden from the sight of the cameras outside of the garage. “Good. Come back in one piece. I need you.” Understanding that he had probably said too much too loudly he quickly added, “to make sure the car gets back in one piece, too.”

Sherlock’s expression almost made John reconsider his restraint to stay away from him, so he nodded at him curtly and then walked away, putting as much distance between Sherlock and himself as was possible in the box. 

Within minutes the countdown started and the seeming chaos became more obviously structures and controlled. John didn’t have time to think of Sherlock’s smile as he went through the pit stop plans one final time with the team and he was busy checking the computer when both Jenson and Sherlock left the pit for the start of the race. 

John was so busy making sure that everything was in order that he almost ran into Mike when he turned around to make his way to the conning board. 

“Oy, what are you doing in the trenches?” John asked and Mike shrugged and handed John a manila folder. 

“Someone left this for you upstairs. He said to make sure that it would get to you before the race.”

John felt the disconcerting weight of the folder that carried his name and decided that he wouldn’t open it. For all he knew he’d find something in there that would take his mind off the race and he couldn’t afford that. And if it was information that would help them win the race, he would not want to know about it either, for the same reason he did not want Jenson to sacrifice his own race.

He thanked Mike and phoned in to check the connections. Sherlock simply answered with an okay, while Jenson chatted for a moment to make sure that everything was in working order. 

Considering his options, John decided to leave the folder next to Lestrade’s computer, trusting him to remind John of it in case he forgot. He suppressed a smile when he let himself imagine reasons why he might forget about it.

It was Carmen who pressed a sheet of paper against his chest as she passed him that ripped him out of his thoughts. “Come on, Watson. We’re good to go.”

John exhaled slowly and looked over the page, finding weather stats printed with red crosses drawn next to time slots. According to this sheet it would start to rain fifteen minutes into the race. 

John jogged out onto the track despite the heat, abandoning his station, finding Sherlock in the crowd and handing him the paper. Without saying a word, Sherlock scanned it, a small frown forming on his face before he handed it back to John. “Thank you,” he said, looking at John for a long moment before he seemed to pull himself out of his thoughts and blinked several times. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. “People will talk.”

“Let them think you have a technical issue,” John smiled and Sherlock smirked. 

“You smiling won’t make them think that anything is wrong,” and John understood that his frown had been an act. 

“Sorry,” he answered, trying to keep a straight face.

“Better.”

“Right.”

“Now go!”

John was undecided. He knew he was wasting time and that he was needed for final calls in the box, but Sherlock’s heat-flushed face and damp curls made it almost impossible for John to turn his back. 

“Go.”

“Watson! Come back into the pit right away!” Lestrade’s voice in his ears jerked John into action. 

“Coming,” John phoned back and turned away, jogging back and regretting it immediately as soon he stopped moving and the heat crashed down on him like a too hot bath. 

“Enjoyed your little trip?” his boss asked him as he wiped his face on a towel which was meant for after the race. 

“Weather report.”

“Good,” was all Lestrade said. “We’re ready to go. Everyone in position.”

John plugged his headphones from his clip-on radio into the conning board and sat down next to Lestrade. He would stay there until the first stop would be imminent and then give orders to the team. They kept the tyres covered, not wanting to reveal that the rain tyres were right in front of the others. As far as John could tell, the other teams were banking on softs to start on and super softs for later. It was a gamble that McLaren might lose, but if they were right, they would doubtlessly be better off than the others. 

When he looked up, he saw that the track was already being cleared and he found that even though he was nervous he felt in control and relatively calm. He gave final orders to the crew and found Lestrade smile at him when he turned his head to try and see Sherlock at pole position. 

The track was empty now and the cars started on their warm up lap. John watched the progress on screen and grinned when Sherlock drove off the ideal line and very close to the left when he reached the Bernie Ecclestone Kurve. The others seemed a bit confused and followed him partly, as if Sherlock knew something about the track that they didn’t. John chuckled. If they only knew.

“I’m impressed. He didn’t mark the track this time,” Lestrade said when all the cars were reassembled at the start and finish line. 

John just grinned and shrugged. 

“Alright. Don’t tell me what he did. I’d rather not know.”

“Nothing. He did nothing. Now stop talking. The race is starting!”

John closed his eyes, listening to the thousands of fans loudly following the start of the race. He could hear motors growl, then howl and finally scream. Red lights out and John’s eyes shot open to see Sherlock shoot away from his position, neatly putting himself right in front of everyone else and pushing hard to get ahead. 

John opened his channel up to the box chatter and received intel that Sherlock’s car was doing fine. No wonky bits and no misfiring buttons. He let out a sigh and let his shoulders drop. 

When he checked the ranking he saw that Jenson had also kept his position and was now engaged in the fight for place four with Lewis. 

“Be careful there, Jenson,” Lestrade piped up. “Stay behind him if you don’t have an easy chance of overtaking him.”

“Understood,” Jenson confirmed and let Lewis drift away half a second. 

But Sherlock pushed, having gotten away from Felipe, who was now being chased by Nico. 

The first five laps saw a change in places only in the back. In the sixths lap, an accident occurred between a Force India and a Toro Rosso and John watched nervously as both cars came to stop too closely to the track to be safe.

“Shit,” John murmured when the yellow flags came out and a few seconds later Sherlock was already driving up to the scene of the crash. He slowed down, conscious of the dirt and chunks on the track and John prayed that the tyres would be alright. Nico caught up with him by four seconds and the whole leading group moved closer together again. Jenson phoned in to say that there was too much clutter on the track to be safe. “I might need to come in. Keep an eye on my tyre pressure please.”

Once the field had passed, the track was quickly swept clean and by the time Sherlock came around again, there were no traces on the track except for the rubber of the crashed car’s tyres. 

Jenson’s tyres seemed to be okay, but he struggled a little and lost time once Lewis picked up speed. Nico had neatly attached himself to Sherlock’s back and followed him closely, but without any attempt to overtake him.

“How are you doing, Sherlock?” Lestrade phoned in, looking tense. 

“I did not want to risk the car.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Can you get away from Nico?”

“I can try,” Sherlock said and shot forward, pressing hard to get some distance between himself and the German. 

“John,” Lestrade motioned him to get into the pit. “Make it quick.”

John nodded and checked the track to make sure that no car would be incoming before he made his way across the pit lane and plugged his headphones into the board in the box. “Prep,” he ordered his team and everyone got into position. Two more laps, according to the stats, and it would start to rain. 

While the clouds were still very much present, none of them looked like they would open up anytime soon and he began to worry that they had made a mistake. 

His heart was in his throat as he watched Sherlock inch away little by little from Nico, careful to not work the brakes too hard. He did exactly what John had expected, but seeing him do it was terrifying. Without the accident, Sherlock could have been eight seconds ahead, enough to make sure that he’d come out well from a tyre change in case of rain.

“Rain in the hairpin,” Sherlock announced. “Twenty seconds and it’s in the pits. I’m coming in. Get a second set for Jenson!”

“Both of you?”

“Yes, be quick about it.”

“You heard the man. Let’s go. We need two sets of rains. Go!”

Sherlock pushed as hard as he could and got another second off the third sector before he left the track and went in while Nico shot past him down towards the start and finish line. 

John held his breath as he watched his team do what they had practiced all weekend. The pit stop only took 7 seconds and Sherlock left just two seconds before Jenson came in to pick up his own rain tyres. Within twenty seconds, Sherlock was out on the track again. None of the other teams had been prepared, John noticed as rain descended on the pits. 

It didn’t seem like much, more like a white mist which did not look very different from the grey white clouds that hung low above the ground, but it was a lot of rain, and with it chaos descended on the boxes. Suddenly all the teams prepared pit stops and when seven separate cars came in to pick up new tyres, the traffic jam was so severe that Sherlock was lapping cars by lap 17. 

“Well done, everyone!” John pulled off his headphones for a moment and leaned back in his chair. 

The rain slowed everyone down and it became almost impossible to see on the track. John called both drivers to ask how they were doing. “I’m driving blind,” Jenson started and Sherlock agreed. “If this gets worse, we need the safety car.”

A lap later, Bernd Mayländer took the safety car out and placed himself in front of Sherlock. The race slowed down even further and John watched his team do frantic calculations to check how far the cars could get with their respective petrol levels. Both cars had started about three quarters full, and considering Sherlock’s driving style, he’d manage another twenty laps, Jenson one or two more than that. 

“How are you doing? Need anything?”

“I could do with an umbrella,” Jenson joked. 

“How’s the car?” Sherlock asked and John scanned the computer screen for his statistics. 

“Alright. The brakes are cool and the tyres are at the right temperature. Lestrade was right about the weather and the cars.”

“I am always right,” Lestrade joined the conversation and John had to bite his tongue as not to laugh when Sherlock made a derisive sound.

“Sherlock. Don’t get cocky with me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock commented drily. 

“When is the rain supposed to end?” John asked, realising that he had been so focused on the start that he hadn’t bothered checking on the length of the downpour.

“It’s getting worse first. Another five to six laps?”

“Intermediates?”

“Softs.”

“Jenson?”

“Intermediates.”

“You’ll have to finish the race with them.”

“Understood.”

“Sherlock, are you sure?”

“As you said. I know how the track feels on soft tyres, so I’ll drive on softs.”

“The track might still …”

“It’d be dry in the span of two laps. I can do a bit of sliding in the meantime.”

“Fine.” 

John ordered his team to prepare the next stop, even though it did not look like it would stop raining anytime soon and Mayländer took one lap after the next, with the field crawling slowly behind him like a mechanical snake slithering along the grey track. 

“Red Bull are saying the rain is letting off,” someone radioed in and John immediately gave the order to get ready for Sherlock’s stop. Then he waited, not quite trusting the intel until he heard it from Sherlock. 

“I’m staying out for another one. Red Bull are coming in, I believe.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

John watched as the Red Bulls came in to refuel and get new tyres. Both of them went for intermediates and upon leaving the box skittered on the track. 

Vettel could barely hold himself on the ideal line which slowly became visible again as the rain let off, but he slid off into the gravel at the Mobil 1 Kurve. Ricciardo managed to remain on the track but lost quite a bit of time due to his careful driving.

“Coming in,” Sherlock announced. 

“Jenson?”

“Go ahead, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock arrived in the pit, the car dripping with water and John watched him with wide eyes as the large nozzle was attached to his car, pumping petrol into his tank and soft tyres were exchanged for the rain tyres. John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock could see him, but he was glad to have a glimpse of his helmet at least from where he was sitting.

Sherlock and Jenson had both been doing well, but the incident early in the race and the long safety car phase had not allowed him to drive the way John selfishly wanted to, so he could watch him. 

He’d lost his first position during the stop and returned to the race in place 7. “Still in the points,” Lestrade informed him. “Keep your head down.”

Jenson’s stop went fine as well, but he landed a little further back in 10th place. 

The rain was now only a drizzle, but steam and mist rising from the track and the surrounding areas still kept visibility low. 

“Still basically blind,” Jenson commented after he almost hit the car ahead of him. 

“Mayländer should be coming in this lap. Visibility will be better in a minute,” Lestrade announced and immediately, Sherlock took up speed and planted himself firmly behind Kimi, who drove in position 6. 

True to Lestrade’s word, the safety car left the track and Nico, who had been leading since the rain had started, sped up. 

Because Sherlock was now driving in the middle of the field, the cameras did not show him much and John began chewing on his nails, watching the sector times instead of the video. 

Sherlock seemed stuck behind Kimi, who was still on rain tyres, but Jenson pushed forward, driving on the already dry ideal line until he found a good spot to overtake the cars in front of him and finally he had closed in on Sherlock.

“What’s happening, Sherlock?” John asked via the radio, wishing he could see what he was doing. 

“Saving the motor, keeping the brakes cool, sliding a bit, but not too much,” Sherlock said, sounding calm.

“Jenson is right behind you.

“I know.”

“Only save as much as you need to, alright?”

“Doing exactly that.”

John sighed and sniffed, trying not to let his nervousness get the better of him. He should trust Sherlock, but the numbers worried him. 

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock clarified and John realised he had left the connection open. 

“Sorry,” John said quickly and closed the line.


	94. Chapter Ninety-Four

“Can someone get me a visual on Sherlock and Jenson?” Lestrade asked his crew, but the helicopter images were not broadcasted and the television cameras clung to Nico and Lewis’s fight for first place. Both of them were very light now and still on rain tyres while both Sherlock and Jenson edged closer to the cars ahead of them. 

“Come on,” John murmured to himself, continuing watching the times. “Why aren’t you overtaking Kimi?”

Two laps later, John had his answer. At first only three and a lap later the remaining three cars ahead of him came in for tyre changes and some of them for fuel. The second Sherlock had regained the first place, he sped up, sliding through some corners where the tarmac was still wet, but getting away from Jenson a second per round. 

"Told you so," Sherlock simply said when he phoned in, and John blushed scarlet, remembering Sherlock’s claim that he could be patient if he wanted to. On top of it all, John knew that the cameras were focussing on him and his team at this moment of triumph and he tried his best to keep a straight face. 

The team was very quiet, as if they couldn’t quite believe that Sherlock’s gamble had paid off. There were another twenty laps to go and now that Sherlock pushed harder, the very real issue of heat and tyre wear arose, but John felt too light headed to really worry. 

Jenson fell back and lost the fight against both Nico and Lewis who caught up with him after their stops, but he managed to stay behind them and fought hard to get the upper hand against Lewis, following him closely until John had to phone in, informing him of dangerously high temperatures and wonky electronics in his car. 

“Can you tell me what it is, precisely?”

“Not sure yet. It might be the engine,” John admitted, trying to find something, anything, that might make the computer spit out worrying variables that changed every few minutes. 

“Sorry,” John finally said. “I can’t tell you what it is.”

“You built the engine, how can you not know?”

John felt his hands shake and he inhaled deeply. “Everyone is looking at it and nobody knows what could cause it.”

“Do I need to come in?”

“No,” Lestrade stepped in. “If you lose power, you lose power. You’re in the points and doing well. We can't see anything from here, but if the car feels good keep going. John, go and have a look at what could cause these results.”

John unplugged himself from the board, cursing under his breath as he went to Lestrade’s computer and downloaded his own manual. Something was wrong with the energy distribution and it looked like a hardware issue. Yet, the numbers the computer spat out didn’t make sense to him, so he returned to the board and called Sherlock.

“Are you free to talk?”

“Depends,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. John took a moment to watch him drive on the screen. Then he opened the channel to Lestrade and Jenson.

“You saw the manual for my motor.”

“I did.”

“Jenson is having issues. Well, the computer is saying that he has issues but he doesn’t feel it yet.”

“What’s the issue precisely?”

“The computer is showing us fluctuating power.” 

“Insulation, maybe?”

“You think rain got in?”

“Into the transmitter, yes. If the car is doing okay, he’ll be okay.”

“God, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock said happily. “Take him offline and he’ll drive better.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Anytime.”

“Jenson? Did you hear?”

“Loud and clear. You owe me a beer for getting me scared.”

“Sure,” John chuckled. “And so does the rest of the team who did not think of the most obvious solution.”

“Umm. I might be having issues,” Sherlock piped up a moment later and John froze. 

“What is it?” he finally managed.

“I’m starting to oversteer and I’m losing downforce.”

“Your tyres,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “Can you handle it?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

“If you don’t want to come in.”

“No.”

“Right. Drive carefully, that’s all.”

John finally took the time to watch Sherlock drive. His oversteering caused him to break out a couple of times, but he always managed to put himself back on the track. 

Jenson drove more daring now, too, but Lewis and Nico had both managed to get some distance between themselves and him, fighting each other for the second place while Jenson remained four seconds behind them, unable to catch up. The fact that he managed to stay this close to the Mercedes was already seen as a major win by the team. 

Sherlock continued to lead with a solid six seconds advantage, but John knew that a single mistake could mean that the Mercedes would be there to take him down. 

Ten laps to go and a couple of cars retired, thankfully none of them on the track. The rain clouds lifted and while it was still foggy and humid, the track was mostly dry, allowing Sherlock to lap the slower cars easily. 

John knew he should be concerned about the tyres, which were starting to show the wear and tear of Sherlock’s driving style, and the rising temperatures in the gear box and engine were slowly approaching problematic heights, but he couldn’t bring himself to warn Sherlock about them. Sherlock would know already and he already drove as safely as he could, including early braking at the corners and controlled acceleration on the straights. 

His back broke out again when he entered the Motodrom at the end of lap sixty with seven laps to go, and he barely made it through the Südkurve. Nico was plastered to his back the moment he crossed the finish line and John closed his eyes, not wanting to see the Mercedes claim first place. 

A gasp went through the box and he watched again, finding that Sherlock had pushed away from him again, because Lewis has caught up with Nico and the two were busy keeping each other in check, giving Sherlock the opportunity to speed up towards the Ecclestone Kurve, and, sliding rather than steering through the corner, he accelerated on the Parabolica. 

He almost came to stand at the hairpin but pushed again and entered the Motodrom with another 4 seconds between himself and Nico. 

John mentally admonished himself for closing his eyes and kept them trained on Sherlock. It was obvious that the car would not make it through the race in the condition it had been in at Silverstone and John could see it tremble and skitter while Sherlock did his best to keep control of the car while still going faster than was sensible. 

The computer began receiving heat warnings when Sherlock entered lap sixty-five and John finally called in. “Be careful. You’re running too hot. You might lose the motor.”

“I know.” Sherlock affirmed. “Things aren't ideal, but let me try, please?”

“Try what?”

“To carry her through?”

John inhaled deeply. “Lestrade?”

“Don’t do anything stupid. Nico is right behind you again. Let him pass if you need to.”

“Never,” Sherlock said and closed the line. 

John bit his lip and allowed himself another sector before he called in again. 

“Do it.”

Sherlock did not respond. The computer’s warning extended to the brakes now and John’s fingers drummed nervously against the conning board. 

When Sherlock entered his final lap, John’s heart leaped. He knew that the car might go up in flames any second now and that the motor could pop and that Sherlock might be thrown off track. But all of these options were silenced by John’s realisation that Sherlock was about to win the second Formula One race of his career. A race that meant more to him that he could possibly understand. A race he drove despite Victor. A race he drove despite Kevin’s presence in the paddock. 

Overwhelmed at seeing Sherlock make it through the Motodrom one last time, taking the Sachskurve with more grace than he had any right to, considering that the car was now visibly jittery and Sherlock was probably using every bit of his strength to keep the car on track, John felt tears running down his cheeks. 

When he flew past the finish line, half a second ahead of Nico, John slid down to the floor, his back resting against the conning board, his face in his hands, sobbing.

Through his headphones he could hear Lestrade’s jubilant exclamations and a few seconds later Jenson’s cheers at coming in at fourth place, but Sherlock kept quiet for a long time.

When he finally spoke up, he sounded like he was barely holding himself together. “Thank you,” he said with a raspy voice. 

This time, John wasn’t there to greet him when Sherlock parked the car and stepped out. John looked up at the screen, watching Sherlock scan the crowd around him, a small frown on his face, but he couldn’t get up yet. 

He saw the camera team enter the box, but he couldn’t bring himself to hide his face. Fresh tears still forced their way down his face and even as he wiped them away, he wasn’t ready to force down the emotions that had bubbled to the surface. 

He finally pushed his headphones off and the cheers of the team engulfed him all of the sudden, adding another layer to his emotional breakdown. 

Never in his life had he felt so happy for anyone else, but with Sherlock it was as if a part of himself had overcome a great challenge and succeeded. He was so proud that he could barely keep himself from sobbing out loud again. When several hands were stretched out to offer to help him up, he laughed, and fresh tears spilled over. He let himself be pulled up and hugged and squeezed and kissed and led outside of the box and then pushed towards the front at the barrier that separated the teams from the winning drivers.

Sherlock was just about to go in for the weighing when he turned around once more, his eyes immediately settling on John, and he walked over, almost casually, but John could see through his tears that he was forcing himself not to run. 

And then he found himself pressed against him, squeezed so hard he had trouble breathing and his fingers dug into Sherlock’s back, refusing to let go of him again. 

“I have to go,” Sherlock finally murmured against his cheek, adding a kiss before pulling back. John continued to hold on to him, but eventually Sherlock stepped out of his embrace. Their eyes met and John could see that his tears had wet Sherlock’s face which Sherlock touched gingerly with two fingers before he smiled and then jogged away. 

The award ceremony was a blur to John. Watching the Mercedes drivers step on the podium seemed unimportant, but when Sherlock stepped up between them, back straight and his head help up high, John felt the tears return. 

His shoulders were slapped by his colleagues and both loving and sarcastic remarks were aimed at him, but nobody said a word about him and Sherlock, and when Sherlock received his cup, the entire team applauded and cheered, wringing a smile from Sherlock. Josh, who picked up the mechanics award, raised his arm in triumph, nodding at John with a wide smile before he touched his fist to his chest.

When the hymns were played, Sherlock looked at John, keeping eye contact until he was soaked in Josh’s champagne. Jerking into action, Sherlock picked up his own and, after getting back at Josh, shook his bottle hard enough to spray the entire McLaren team from above. 

He didn’t bother with either Nico or Lewis, which presented them both with the awkward necessity of having to half-heartedly spray some champagne at each other despite their longlasting differences before they both stepped next to Sherlock and concentrated on the Mercedes team. 

John chuckled, remembering how utterly happy Jenson had been for Sherlock in Silverstone and it hit him how lucky he was to stand where he stood, watching Sherlock happily empty a huge bottle of sticky liquid over the heads of people who had despised him as recently as three weeks ago. 

People change, he thought, watching Sally standing on the side, giggling as she wiped champagne from the screen of her phone. She’d be with Sherlock at the press conference while Jenson would be giving interviews outside. And John would have to help pack up the garage. 

The thought of having to wait until he could kiss Sherlock sobered him up a bit, leaving him with a nervous energy that remained even after a repetition of the rather awkward post-race interview of the winning drivers. The cars were being weighed by the stewards and finally released to the teams again. 

When John saw Molly’s state, he couldn’t quite believe that Sherlock had managed to even drive her home. The tyres were a mass of melted, bubbly rubber, dirt and gravel having become an integral part of them. 

The car’s frame had taken a beating as well. Scratches from the curbs, dirt from where the rain had picked up durst from the track and plastered it onto the car. And John knew that the insides wouldn’t look much better. He was sure that the brakes would fall apart if he opened her up and he did not want to think of the motor.

Sherlock had taken the car to her absolute limit and John gave the order to just pack her up as she was, wanting to take her apart bit by bit under supervision in Woking so that they could learn from her state. 

“John?” Jenson appeared in the garage, still in his suit, wet and dishevelled. 

“God, you look like shite,” John chuckled and received a messy hug. 

“Same to you. Stirred some hearts with your reaction at the end there.”

“What?” John felt his ears go red. 

“It’s become a classic already. _Watson cries his heart out at second win in a row after his return to the garage_. I think they’ve already made a slow motion clip, complete with a melodramatic soundtrack that’s being played on loop. McLaren will probably produce a DVD of it.”

“Oh god,” John rubbed his face. “How are you?”

“I’m good. But your plan was shit.”

“What plan?”

“Me, keeping the field at bay so he could drive ahead.”

John burst out laughing. “Yeah, that one wasn’t such a master piece, was it?”

“You owe me a drink.” Jenson said and John scrunched up his face. 

“We have to pack.”

“Fuck it, John. You have a team of seventeen people who can all do the packing up. You get your things and come to the motorhome.”

John looked around himself, watching his team busying themselves with a systematic dismantling of the garage. 

“Fine.”

“And before you go all responsible on me, I asked Aki and he said you’re okay to drink if you don’t take painkillers. You don’t, do you?”

John shook his head. 

“Good. Let’s go.”

John grabbed his things and was almost out of the door when he remembered the folder Mike had left for him. He found it still sitting next to Lestrade’s computer and picked it up. 

Jenson and John were stopped by camera teams twice on their way to the motorhome and Jenson, while polite and positive, made it obvious that he wasn’t interested in giving yet another interview just then, and pulled John away from them before they could think to ask him about his reaction to the race. 

When they entered the motorhome, Lestrade, Anderson, Mike, Sally, Carmen, Josh and Lukas were holding plastic cups of champagne, a lot of which got spilled when they raised their cups to John and Jenson. 

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked, just a moment before he was hugged tightly from behind, feeling Sherlock’s lips against the nape of his neck for a split second. 

“Here,” he said with a small smile. 

He had showered and wore the clothes he had put on this morning after John had ruined the first set of clothes. John allowed himself a moment to imagine ruining this set of clothes as well. 

Then Sherlock’s eyes settled on the folder in John’s hands and he stepped back, frowning. 

“What?”

“What’s in there?” he asked quietly, as if he did not want the others to hear. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked yet.”

“It’s Mycroft’s hand,” Sherlock said and John turned the folder to look at the writing. “How did you get it?”

“Mike gave it to me before the race. Said someone had left it for me. I didn’t want to open it in case …”

“Where did you keep it?”

“On the desk by Lestrade’s computer.”

“You do know what’s in there, right?”

John knew he was blushing furiously, terrified at the notion of anyone opening the envelope in his absence and simultaneously amused that he hadn’t guessed. 

Sherlock stepped closer, as close as he could without touching John. “If you ever tell me off again for risking us, I’ll remind you of the fact that you let the entire public evidence of our relationship lying around in sight of everyone, positively offering it to anyone who might come across it.”

“I didn’t think….” John felt his heart sink, realising that Sherlock was entirely serious. 

“Precisely.”

“I’m sorry,” John looked down on the envelope. “I trusted the team not to take interest.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and John became aware of the fact that the celebratory noise had ceased and that they were being watched. “Champagne?” Jenson offered, holding up two cups. 

“Not now,” John said, avoiding his eyes and Sherlock’s. “Do you have a minute?”

Sherlock sighed and turned around, leading the way. John felt his hands shake as he followed him back outside and into the afternoon sun. 

They found a relatively calm spot, though there were still enough people around to worry John. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I just … I didn’t consider the possibility that Mycroft would do this. Not moments before the race. What purpose would that serve except to take my mind off the race.”

Sherlock’s expression changed at his words. After a long silence, he finally nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry, John. He knew you wouldn’t open it. He knew you wouldn’t have time to put it somewhere safe.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t think this through.”

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No! _I_ didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“You cried,” Sherlock said, sounding like he was desperate to change the topic but knowing that he might not make things better by doing so. 

“Apparently seeing you win impressed me a little.”

“Oh, you were impressed and that is why you cried?”

“Like a baby.”

Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with John’s answer, so John handed Sherlock the envelope. “This is yours,” he said, “if it’s really what we think it is.”

“Your file.”

“My life,” John said, realising only how corny it sounded as he said it. But he meant it. He wanted Sherlock to have his file. He had opened up his childhood home to him and let him in so completely that John’s tales of his family and his early racing history seemed insufficient in return. 

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes until John smiled at him and Sherlock’s expression changed profoundly. Suddenly it was he who had tears in his eyes.

“Come on,” John said quietly. “They are waiting for us.”

“I didn’t mean to …”

“Yes, you did. And it’s fine. You have every right to be upset and angry with me. I was irresponsible and I am glad that nothing happened.”

“This is your wall, is it not?” Sherlock seemed torn between feeling terrible and somewhat excited. 

John shook his head smiling. “No. You climbed that wall knowing exactly what you were doing.”

“So yours is worse?”

“No, yours,” John poked his ribs with his elbow. “On top of you knowing, you could have died and then I would have never gotten to make love to the winner of the German GP 2014.”

“You haven’t yet,” Sherlock noted and John laughed, immensely relieved by how well Sherlock was taking all of this. 

“We have to celebrate first.”

“Tedious.”

“Behave.”

“Fine. I’ll come back inside with you.” 

“And you’ll have a drink.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Are you okay?” John asked just before they climbed the steps to the motorhome. 

“Can we talk later?” Sherlock asked and John’s face fell. 

“Of course.”

“No, John. Not about this.”

“What about, then?”

“Something I can’t tell you yet.”

“So you are okay.”

“For the moment.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Do I have to be worried?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” 

“On your reaction when I tell you?”

“God, Sherlock, then tell me and be done with it.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“It can be. You could simply tell me.”

“We’re not flying home tonight. That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

“We’re not?”

“No.”

“None of us?”

“Some of us.”

“Why?”

Sherlock bit his lip and shrugged.

“Do the others know?”

Sherlock shook his head, but John didn’t trust him to be truthful. “Come on, they must be thinking we’re getting a divorce or something.”

“We’re not married,” John commented drily. 

Sherlock just smirked and opened the door, pushing John inside ahead of him.

The atmosphere inside the motorhome was tense. It felt a little as if the groom had left the bride just before the wedding ceremony and now that he was back, nobody knew how to react appropriately. 

“Sorry about that,” John said sheepishly. "Where were we?"


	95. Chapter Ninety-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys, for your feedback <3 On a random note, just to make you see why I love this sport and those idiot-drivers so much, take a moment to watch this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ieUSh-YoXk

The awkward silence continued and John noticed that Jenson looked truly worried. 

“Come one, you said you wanted to celebrate,” John finally said, making his way over to Jenson and picking up the two discarded cups he had held up for them earlier. Sherlock followed him sheepishly, avoiding looking at anyone until John placed one of the cups in his hand and then kissed him full on the lips. 

The kiss lifted the spell that had hung over the trailer and like a sigh of relief the excitement was back. Someone pushed a phone in front of John’s face, showing him the video of him breaking down crying and Sherlock stood right behind him, one arm wrapped around his hip, his chin resting on John’s shoulder. 

“Fuck,” John said, laughing at himself, but secretly feeling like crying again. Sherlock’s lips pressed a kiss just underneath his ear and he turned around, making it a real one. There were cheers and more champagne and finally Lestrade called for silence. 

“Alright, let me just say one thing,” he started, looking slightly misty-eyed himself. “When I asked Sherlock to drive, I was running out of options. I knew he would do his job, at least, as long as he cared to do it,” he grinned. “But I wasn’t sure. I took a gamble and it turned out to be a pretty damn fine one. Because not only did he drive our car, but he drove John Watson’s car. He also drove us all crazy, but it appears that that was part of the deal. Now, I’ve talked to the board, and the team and Kevin and Jenson,” he swallowed and then cleared his throat, more for dramatic effect, John thought, than any real necessity, “and it is agreed that Sherlock Holmes will be driving for us next season as a regular.”

John felt Sherlock go stiff next to him and he took his hand, squeezing tightly. 

“Jenson has agreed to stay with us, which is a relief,” he nodded and Jenson who gave a little bow, “though I suspect it has to do with the recent changes both in the atmosphere and the performance of the team, and I am well aware that we have a lot of work to do. Kevin will leave us to try his luck with a different team and Stoffel will remain our first substitute and test driver, but Sherlock Holmes will be the second driver on the team next season, if he accepts the terms and conditions and all the small print, of course.”

“The second?” Sherlock asked, and John stared at him. He had expected Sherlock to be irritated at being publically asked like this, or overwhelmed, really, but he had not expected him to look at Lestrade with the same kind of aloof annoyance that he had showcased on the very first day he was asked to drive. 

“The second. Jenson is your senior, both in age and experience. You will find a way to work things out. You will also continue to test.”

“And I get to keep John?” he asked and a few suppressed ‘awws’ floated through the room. 

Lestrade gave him a disapproving look. “He’ll want to decide that for himself, I suppose.”

John frowned, not quite sure what his boss was implying. Jenson looked decidedly hopeful, though, and John decided to take it as an invitation. “I’ll think about it,” he nodded and Sherlock gave him such a scandalised look that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course I’ll stay, idiot,” he said fondly and both Sherlock and Jenson exhaled their relief. 

“Stoffel will continue to sub for Kevin until he is fit to finish the season. I want him to get some laps under his belt so he can build himself a future in racing. We’ll call in a press conference for Tuesday to announce the changes. Now, drink up. We’re packing before the party.”

“Umm,” Sherlock spoke up against the raised plastic cups. “John and I are staying until tomorrow.”

“You are?” Lestrade seemed less than impressed but then simply shrugged. 

“Yes, we have something important to do before we return home.”

“We do?” John asked. 

“We do,” Sherlock nodded. 

“Okay,” John agreed, liking the idea of sleeping in instead of hopping on a plane half drunk and not getting into bed before sunrise. 

Sherlock flashed him a smile before he turned back to the team. “Do I have to go to that party?”

Everyone, including John, answered with a pronounced “yes”. 

The whole team met for a debriefing before Lestrade told everyone to enjoy the triumph while it lasted, conscious of the challenges the Hungarian GP would bring in a fortnight. 

They were allowed to return to the hotel to wash up and dress for the evening and both John and Sherlock dutifully did just that in their separate rooms. Only when John left his room he found Sherlock standing across the hall from his door, freshly shaved, his clothes once more impeccable, while he looked decidedly too uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” John said, frowning at the way Sherlock seemed to try to make himself smaller than he was. 

“Can I come in?”

“Why didn’t you knock?”

Sherlock shrugged and John held the door open. Sherlock walked in without a word and sat down on the bed.

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock waited until John had closed the door before he opened his right hand. He held a grey lump up to him. 

“Are those my notes?” John asked and Sherlock nodded. 

“I shouldn’t have taken them. They’re ruined now. I wanted to keep them.”

John sighed before he pushed Sherlock’s hand out of the way and climbed onto his lap. Sherlock immediately dropped the lump on the bed and wrapped both arms around John’s back to hold him in place.

“I asked you to take them.”

“And I knew they’d be soaked.”

“In champagne,” John smiled, nodding. “Like I said they would.”

With these words Sherlock started trembling and John realised that he had barely held himself together since he found him outside his door. So he hugged him close and let him cry against his chest, kissing his hair. 

“I almost let go,” Sherlock finally said. “I almost couldn't drive her towards the end and I was so scared of breaking her.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I saw the warnings.” 

“You were brave to try.”

“I broke her in my in-lap.”

John smiled and gently pushed Sherlock away a little so he could see his face. “You dented her.”

Fresh tears spilled over and this time John couldn’t hold his own back. 

“You won,” he said, once more in awe of Sherlock’s abilities as a driver, and Sherlock nodded. 

“I did.”

“You did.”

Sherlock looked at him with wonder in his eyes before he took John’s face between his hands and kissed him. John tasted the salt of their tears and he smiled against his lips, eventually kissing Sherlock’s cheeks. “We’re quite the heroes, sitting in a hotel room, crying.”

“I blame the champagne.”

“Good call.”

“You cried in public. Before the champagne.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” John chuckled and Sherlock kissed him again. 

“Why? Really?”

“Because I was happy for you. I am happy for you,” John murmured against his lips. “And the race was intense, so I guess I was also a bit relieved.”

Sherlock let himself fall backwards, taking John with him. “I should start swimming again.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m exhausted.”

“Oh,” John said, crossing his arms across Sherlock’s chest and propping his chin up on his arms. “How exhausted?”

“Quite.”

“You’re not staying in bed. You’re coming to the party.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” John grinned before he grew worried. “This was not about the party.”

“No.”

“You’re talking about the sex.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“You’re saying you’re too exhausted for sex.”

Sherlock made a sound that was neither here nor there. 

“No, you’re right. You gave everything. Your wrists and back must kill you from holding the car on track. We shouldn’t have raised our expectations quite so high.”

“I just imagined it to be less … interrupted by other obligations.”

“I know,” John smiled and let himself fall sideways, coming to lie on his back with his side pressed closely to Sherlock’s. “I still enjoy the idea of getting you out of your filthy suit and fucking you, sweat, champagne and all.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up in mock disgust and John giggled, stretching his neck to kiss him. He was elated to find that his shoulder did not protest. 

“I also enjoy the idea of not travelling tonight.”

“We should go,” Sherlock said suddenly and John wasn’t sure whether he believed that the sooner they went to the party, the sooner they could return to the hotel, or whether he wanted to avoid talking about the real reason why they stayed longer. 

“Yes,” he agreed, staying where he was. 

Sherlock sighed. “You were supposed to help me up.”

“Oh,” John grinned, reaching out to press a hand against his groin. “You don’t need any help with that.”

“You are terrible.”

“I know. That’s why you love me.” He chuckled and turned on his side to be able to run a hand from his chest to his belt. 

“No,” Sherlock protested, stopping his hand before he could worm it underneath his belt. “It is one of many reasons that I do.” 

John smiled widely and kissed him again. Just when Sherlock began to deepen the kiss, a loud knock made them both jump. “Jesus,” John murmured and moved off the bed before pulling Sherlock into an upright position by his hands. “Have you thought of seeing Aki? He can assign you a physio therapist,” John suggested as he went to open the door. Sally stood on the other side, her eyes on her phone. 

“I’m supposed to get the two of you.”

“We were just about to leave,” John nodded, leaving the door open while he went back to Sherlock, pushing hair out of his eyes and wiping his cheeks with his thumbs. When he turned back to Sally, he could see that she had chanced a look, probably expecting … well, John couldn’t truly tell what she had been expecting. In any case, she looked relieved. 

Sherlock quickly went into the bathroom and came out again, wiping his face with a towel. “Okay,” he said and John pushed his phone and hotel key into his pocket, letting Sherlock walk out of the door first, enjoying the tightness of his trousers against his arse. 

“When can we expect your return, Sherlock?” Sally asked, having returned to her phone while taking the steps down to the foyer without wavering once. 

“Tuesday, midday.”

John looked at him, surprised to learn that they would be away for two nights and not just one additional one.

“They’ll want to do a press conference in Woking and possibly a driver’s profile. Get you on paper with the sponsors’ ads.”

“Of course.” When they left the hotel they found that the rain had finally cleared the air a bit and a fresh breeze finally brought some relief from the heat. 

“You did the photo shoot already, so these pictures will be used for now. But we need some ads scheduled and you will have to attend some promotional events as well. You’ll get the schedule when you are back. In the meantime, try to enjoy yourself?” She finally looked up at him again. 

Sherlock frowned at her. “Are you implying that my duties will not be enjoyable?”

“You’ll have to work with people you don’t know on projects you don’t want to participate in.”

“I see.”

Sally nodded and opened a car door for them. “I’ll be right behind you.”

They were left alone in the car and while John was tempted he kept his distance to Sherlock. 

“She’s right, you know?” John eventually said as the car pulled up by the paddock. “I’ve been forcing you to participate in events that you did not want to go to. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that you don’t like people much.”

Sherlock gave him a strange look and John wondered whether he had gone too far with his assumption.

“What I mean is that you don’t have to.”

“You always asked nicely,” Sherlock shrugged. “And most of the time it was useful in one way or another.”

John nodded. “But this party tonight. Just tell me when it gets too much for you?”

“Are you trying to find a way of sneaking out early without taking responsibility?”

“I’m wearing a pound of makeup on my neck. I am not comfortable in this suit, and yes, I’d much rather go back to our special place.” 

“This is my last clean suit,” Sherlock spoke quietly. 

“I see,” John shook his head grinning. “So we do this.”

“John, I’ll be fine. I won this race. I was absent last time. I think I owe it to the team to be there.”

“Fine, let’s go get pissed then,” he gently squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and wandered off, finding Robert Fuhracker and his grandsons looking a bit overwhelmed as the Nicos were chatting with them. When Sebastian joined them, Benjamin began to cry, his hands shaking as he held out his book for him to sign. 

John was just getting a drink for himself and for Jenson when he saw Sherlock walk up to them, shaking Mr Fuhracker’s hand and finding Benjamin simply staring up at him in wonder. For a moment, nobody spoke or moved. Then, in a flurry of movement, the boy handed his book to his grandfather and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, holding him tightly. 

John almost started crying again at the sight, biting his lip when Sherlock gently petted the back of the boy’s head and his shoulders, finally pushing him away a bit before going down on one knee in front of him to be on his eye level. John couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could see the tears drop from Benjamin’s chin. 

John was interrupted by the bar tender handing him the drinks and when he looked in Sherlock’s direction again, he could see that he had taken him up on his shoulders and began introducing him to the other drivers. 

Jenson came up to him and high fived the boy who was beaming now, before he said hello to the other boys and their grandfather. John walked over to bring him his drink and they ended up chatting for a while. Robert Fuhracker was translating for the boys while Jenson told them anecdotes from the times when he was still a world champion. “But now the team is off much better than during the past few years and I think we have a good year ahead of us next year. John here has been truly great. You might not think it, but he’s a magician. He can see a car in his mind and then conjure it up out of thin air.”

“Yes, with the help of millions of pounds and long hours in the garage,” John chuckled, “but yeah, totally magical apart from that.”

The boys chuckled and John grinned. 

“Oi, what happened to Sherlock?” Jenson asked John after the Fuhrackers had discovered an Xbox that someone had installed and watched Daniel and Sebastian battle each other on screen. 

Sherlock was still walking around with Benjamin on his shoulders, occasionally lowering himself by bending his knees to allow the boy to shake the hands of smaller people. 

“He’s all smiles,” Jenson sat down, accepting yet another drink John put in front of him. 

“He’s happy.”

“He’s never happy. He’s excited or bored or annoyed, but not happy.”

“You’re so full of shit,” John chuckled. “You know how he can be. And he’s relieved. And he’s proud. And he just proved himself to be better than his parents ever meant for him to be.”

“His parents?”

“Never mind,” John grimaced, wondering whether he had, once again, said too much. 

“Are they like yours were?”

“Only very rich, I guess. But yeah. _Extremely_ supportive and all that.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. And, to be fair, I’ve never seen him this smiley when he wasn’t standing right next to you.” He gave John a telling look and John laughed, touching his glass to Jenson’s. 

“Right.”

“So you two are staying another night?”

“Two, apparently.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Sherlock didn’t say.”

“Are you going to elope?”

“Wouldn’t get further than Scotland, I’m sure.”

“Aww, domestic bliss and all that.”

“To be honest, I can’t wait to be back home.”

“John Watson, you’re a changed man.” Jenson wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple. “I like the new you.” 

John grinned and sipped on his drink. “Me, too,” he admitted. “I also haven’t gotten laid this much since my college days. Honestly, it's out of control.”

Jenson laughed and they clinked glasses again, finding Sherlock looming over John when they looked up again. 

Neither of them drank. 

“John, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Jenson waited for a full five seconds before he made a surprised noise as if he had been called by someone and moved away a few feet, only to return with a wide smile, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, and walking away again. 

John looked at Sherlock, licking his lips, knowing that Jenson had managed to perfectly undermine his show of jealousy that Sherlock had undoubtedly been about to put on.

“So how are you?” John asked when Sherlock remained silent. 

“Surprisingly alright,” he finally admitted. 

“Good. Give it a few minutes and you will thoroughly hate it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“You’ll see,” John grinned. 

Sherlock looked around himself and it was in fact only a matter of seconds before he saw Lestrade carrying a small box into the centre of the room and voices rose to get Sherlock to join him. “Oh god, what is happening?”

“Just go. Don’t kill him, please?”

The room grew almost silent as the music was turned off and Lestrade clinked a spoon to the glass in his hands. “Attenta, attenta. As Sherlock was not present two weeks ago, he has no choice but to go through this tonight.”

Applause and cheers followed and John could see that Sherlock was the opposite of comfortable. He pulled out his phone and took a picture, grinning when he thought about how Sherlock would blow everyone’s mind in a moment and how he wouldn’t even be aware of it himself. 

“This is a test, an exam, if you will. Each new winning driver has to undergo it. The questions have been chosen by the drivers and I, as your boss, will have the pleasure of reading out these questions.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but then he saw the Fuhracker boys moving closer to see better and he visibly pulled himself together. 

“First question,” Lestrade opened the box and pulled out a piece of paper. 

“On which day was the original Hockenheimring officially opened.” Benjamin tugged at his grandfather’s trousers, asking him to translate. 

“Is that a real question?” Sherlock asked, frowning deeply. “It’s written on the wall of the Motodrom. Everyone who pays attention knows that it was the 29th of May in 1932.”

The room was silent and John could tell that Sherlock had been serious with his disbelief.

“This is correct,” Lestrade said, clearly having read the answer on the paper first. “Well done. Next one. Name the record lap times of both the old course and the new.”

“1:41.808 and 1:13.780. Montoya and Räikkönen. Schumacher drove a qualifying lap in 1:13,306, though. That’s the real record.“

“The years?”

Sherlock sighed. “2001 and 2004. Is this really a quiz?”

“Oh, shut up and just answer the questions,” Lestrade said, growing flustered. “How many turns does the track have?”

“16 for the old one and 17 now. Lestrade, why am I here?”

“Who won the race when the track was reopened in 2002?”

“This is getting ridiculous. Of course it was Schumacher. Every child knows that.”

“Aber das war Michael,” Benjamin piped up, “nicht Ralf.”

Sherlock’s gaze found the boy and for a second John believed that he would berate him for stating the obvious, but then he just nodded. “Danke, Benjamin. Du hast natürlich Recht.”

Laughter broke out in the room, relaxing the slightly tense atmosphere decidedly. 

“Final question,” Lestrade looked somewhat relieved to get it over with. “Who won today’s GP?”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, his eyes finding John’s in the crowd. “McLaren did,” he said quietly. 

“Fuck me,” Jenson said under his breath and John tried his hardest to not let the urge to cry right there and then overwhelm him again. He blinked rapidly and swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. 

“ _You_ did, you idiot,” he then said loudly, his voice much stronger than he had feared it would be. 

And with that, the spell was broken. The doors at the far end of the room opened and a large cake was wheeled in and suddenly there was confetti and more champagne and Sherlock stood in the eye of the hurricane and smiled at John. And John smiled back so hard his cheeks hurt. Finally, Jenson stepped between them, forcing John to look away. “That didn’t go as horribly as it could have.”

“I warned him not to kill Lestrade.”

“That final answer, though.”

“I don’t know where that came from.”

“John,” Jenson shook his head. “I’ve never heard anyone say I love you so clearly without actually saying the words as he just did right there.”

John pursed his lips, wondering how Jenson was so fluent in Sherlock’s awkward and indirect communication. “You know, I think next season is going to be amazing,” John finally found his voice again. 

“Ah, well, I’ll just copy his test scores and hope for the best,” Jenson grinned. 

John laughed and hugged him again before he made his way over to his boss. “He took that well, didn’t he?”

“I feared the worst. But tradition is tradition.”

“I have never heard of this tradition before,” Sherlock suddenly appeared next to them and John moved to press his arm against Sherlock’s without seeming overly obvious about it. 

“That’s because you’re a rookie. They had the cake ready and all last time, but you decided to go and sulk.”

“I did not.” Sherlock glared at Lestrade, who smirked in return. 

“Anyway, you did well and deserve the cake.”

“You’ve been here for two races, how could you expect to know about the winner’s cake when you won both of them?” John asked. 

“It’s in none of the books.”

John chuckled, leaning in even closer. “Some things you just have to experience.”

Sherlock gave him a look that made John step away from him and which made Lestrade grin. “I was a little worried about you two, earlier, but I guess you are really good at working things out.”

“We have our methods,” Sherlock said with an aloof expression and Lestrade laughed out loud and turned away from them, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What?” Sherlock seemed slightly irritated. “What did I say?”

John chuckled. “I’ll explain later. Now, have some cake, you deserve it.”


	96. Chapter Ninety-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so lovely! Thank you for your comments! <3

Sherlock dutifully ate some cake, posed for pictures and signed a few things for the VIPs present at the party. Nevertheless, John could tell that he did not truly want to do any of these things. When Lestrade got the team together to get on the late flight back to London, Sherlock immediately began saying his good-byes to the Fuhrackers and left with the rest of the team while John was still chatting to Felipe. 

“Oi, where are you going?” he called after him and when someone remarked that McLaren had left the building, minus their head mechanic, John quickly waved the room good bye and ran after them.

He found Sherlock waiting for him downstairs, the last light already fading even though he hadn’t felt that the party had been going on for a particularly long time. “Sorry, I didn’t know how else to leave.”

“You did well up there.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John took his hand, only to drop it again a moment later. “Sorry,” he murmured and Sherlock stepped away from him. 

“So, the team knows, half of the other teams know, and yet none of it is in the papers.”

“By it you mean us?”

“Obviously.”

“Can we talk about this at the hotel?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Right,” John said, suddenly slightly nervous. “So the weekend is over and we survived.”

“We did.” Sherlock bit his lip, leaving John light headed. 

“Hotel?”

“Absolutely.”

Throughout the short ride to the hotel tension grew between them. There was so much they wanted to say, each of them holding the words back, barely. On top of that, John had to force himself to keep his hands to himself. Sherlock standing in the middle of a room full of professionals, answering relatively tricky questions like they were just a warm up had made John realise that Sherlock really did not realise how he came across occasionally, and that his irritation had been real. 

It amazed him and he wondered, not for the first time, how Sherlock saw the world. Did he just see details, fragments and numbers that he probed and rearranged until they made sense to him? Did he even need any technical help during his races or should John focus on building him a car that was intuitive rather than full to the brim with the newest technology. 

If he managed to be faster in a Honda motor than great drivers in a Ferrari motor, then the motor seemed relatively unimportant as long as it was steadfast. He’d need to build a whole new car. Molly had done her job and he could build on her and Sherlock’s experiences with her, but he wanted to start from scratch. He did not want him to win because he was driven to doing it by a multitude of reasons. He wanted him to win because he had a car that he could trust and that best served his abilities and talent. 

Their car stopped and John thanked the driver after Sherlock just jumped out of the car without a word and followed him inside. Everyone was already carrying their bags out of the hotel and Sherlock was stopped by Carmen, who high fived him, and a moment later Jenson, who hugged them both before Lestrade waved at them from afar. 

“Mine or yours?” Sherlock asked, breathless. 

“Mine’s closer,” John argued and Sherlock inhaled deeply and began chasing up the stairs. 

“Good thinking,” he commented as he pressed his back against John’s door, waiting desperately for him to open it. 

John’s hands were shaking and it took him several attempts to unlock the door. He shoved Sherlock inside and threw the door closed behind him. “Undress,” he ordered Sherlock before he had even turned around to face him. “Put your clothes away somewhere safe.” 

“Somewhere safe?” Sherlock asked amused, his fingers already unbuttoning his shirt.

“Inside the wardrobe, in the bathroom, anywhere were you think you won’t get come on it,” John affirmed his first order and Sherlock smirked. 

“I don’t think the bathroom would be safe.”

“Shut up and get naked.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “What now?”

“Stay there.” John breathed, leaning back against the door. “Just stand there for a moment.”

Sherlock had been about to answer, but his lips closed again and he watched John steadily. “What about you?” he finally asked, his eyes settling on John’s tight trousers. 

“The lube is upstairs,” John said drily, realising that maybe the two additional flights of stairs would have been a fair sacrifice to make. “Give me your card.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’re not leaving me. Not right now.”

John let his eyes wander down Sherlock’s body. “I want to be inside of you,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “I want to take you apart.”

Sherlock had grown entirely hard under his stare. “Please, John. Don’t go.”

“Come with me, then?”

“Like this?” Sherlock pointed down on his cock. 

“Get the bathrobe. It’s yours anyway.”

“Right,” Sherlock remained where he was. 

“What?”

“I just thought you’d be touching me by this time of night.”

“Oh, I hoped I would have been touching you much earlier.”

They stood there, Sherlock entirely naked and somewhat disappointed, and John still dressed to the nick, undecided on how to proceed. “Fuck it,” John finally said and took three long strides before crushing his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around John and lifted him up, holding him tightly before dropping him on the bed and climbing on top of him, still kissing him. His fingers found John’s flies and soon he was stroking him, still inside his pants, while John gasped against his chin, his hands clutching at Sherlock’s sides, his fingers leaving long red streaks where he held him too tightly. 

It was a matter of seconds before he had to forcibly push Sherlock off him, gasping loudly. “No, not yet.”

“When?” Sherlock asked, licking his lips as he looked at John’s cock, peeping out of his flies. 

“Fuck. I don’t know. I want you. I want this.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s not how I imagined it would be,” John admitted, rubbing his face. 

“Is anything ever the way you imagine it will be?”

“Being with you usually is,” John said, reaching out to keep Sherlock’s hand from sneakily returning to its target. “Except this is … I’m sorry, I was so focused on making love to you that now I’m … I’m just.” 

“Let go, John. Please? Just let me do this and then you can do anything you want.”

John inhaled deeply and nodded. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’d rather have you fuck me into the carpet upstairs, too,” Sherlock grinned and John laughed.

“Am I rubbing off on you?”

“No, I’m rubbing you off,” Sherlock answered cheekily and kissed him messily before he pushed John’s shirt up and his trousers and pants down further. Then he spat into his hand and began stroking him again, watching John closely. 

John concentrated on Sherlock’s eyes and his half smile and before he knew it, he was barely holding on, clutching at Sherlock’s arms and coming a moment later, breathing heavily against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Oh god,” John said after allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. “You did this on purpose.” 

While Sherlock had pushed his shirt away, it had moved down his body again and it was now neatly sprinkled with flecks of semen. 

Sherlock grinned and kissed him. “You didn’t want undress.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to be in charge here,” he chuckled and kissed him back. 

“Backfired a bit, didn’t it?” Sherlock grinned against his lips.

“Okay, let’s move this upstairs.”

“You don’t want to … you know?” Sherlock rolled off him and pointed at his erection. 

“No. It’s the only thing I have going for my dominance at the moment,” John explained and Sherlock laughed, stroking himself. 

“Oh, fuck you!” John said heartily and pulled him down again to continue the kiss. “Okay, let’s pack up my things so I can move in with you upstairs.”

“John,” Sherlock sat up, looking down on him with a resigned look on his face, shaking his head lightly. “I love you, but I drove a race today that I feel in every bone in my body, and I am naked and I want you and I am willing to put on that bathrobe and pretend that I am none of these things for the exact time it takes me to go upstairs, but I will not help you pack anything except for yourself to take upstairs, is that understood?”

“I love you, too,” John said with a wide smile and pushed himself up to kiss Sherlock, who sighed but let himself be kissed. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock said gently before he went into the bathroom, put on his bathrobe and grabbed his clothes. “Move your delectable arse upstairs before I do it for you.”

“You know that you make it sound like a challenge, right?”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock grinned and walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar so John had to scramble to close it. “Jesus,” he said loudly to himself. Then he looked at the state of his clothes and decided that he’d use his own bathrobe to follow Sherlock upstairs. On top of that, he took a t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms upstairs with him. 

He knocked on Sherlock’s door, waiting with bated breath until Sherlock let him in. 

“Hey,” John said and raised an eye-brow at him, nothing more. 

“About that thing we talked about,” John cleared his throat. “Just now, downstairs.”

“What thing precisely?”

“That thing where I fuck you into the carpet,” John offered and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Right.” He stressed the ‘t’, making it sound like he was above John’s flirting, but John could see that he was still hard under his bathrobe. He licked his lips. 

“One moment,” Sherlock held up his hand to stop John from moving before he could think about it and for the first time since entering the room, John saw how different it looked. Sherlock’s trophy stood on the desk, sitting on the manila folder. And on every available surface, bags or boxes were stacked, most of them looking like sponsor’s gifts, while some carried a more personal air. 

“Did I miss your birthday or something?”

“Apparently it’s a thing that happens if you win more than once,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Can I look at them?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at him. “How about you wash up and then you do good on your promise?”

“Right,” John moved into the bathroom, ignoring the urge to touch Sherlock on the way there. He considered using the sink but ended up taking a very quick shower. Sherlock looked less than impressed when he returned.

“What? You told me to wash up.”

Sherlock huffed. “How do you want me?”

John bit his lip and walked up to him. Then he led him to the desk and pushed at his shoulder. “Bend over,” he said gently, making sure that Sherlock came face to face with his trophy. “No suit, so at least a little reminder of the race.”

“You mean other than my sore body.”

“Enjoy it while you can still move,” John grinned. “Tomorrow is going to be fun!”

“If by fun you mean that I will complain about it all day, then yes.”

“Stay,” John ordered him, gently petting the small of his back through the bathrobe. Then he made his way over to the night stand and fished the lube and a condom from the drawer. Once he had returned to Sherlock, he placed both on the desk beside him and then pulled on the bathrobe until Sherlock let it slip off his back. 

Then he placed his right hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and pushed gently, guiding him to lean down further. He pressed his foot against Sherlock’s ankles in turn, making him widen his stance and thereby making himself more accessible. 

“Will you come if I do this?”

“Probably.”

“Right, so I just keep going until you’re ready again?”

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock squirmed, but then he turned his head to be able to look at him and nodded. “Do your worst.”

“I will,” John smiled and squeezed a copious amount of lube on his palm before placing it flat between his buttocks, leaning over to kiss his back as he started to very slowly move up and down, spreading the lube while his fingertips gently massaged his perineum. 

Sherlock gasped and began to slowly rock against his fingers. “This is nice,” he whispered and John kissed his back again, using his teeth a little later. Sherlock’s knees buckled, but he did not complain. 

When John slipped one finger in, Sherlock stopped moving. Instead, his skin broke out in goose flesh. “God,” John whispered and ran his hand from his neck down to the small of his back before he took hold of his hip for leverage and began to move. 

He took things slowly, but he knew that once the adrenaline would wear off, both of them would be too exhausted to do anything other than collapse on the bed and call it a night, so he needed to keep them both on edge. 

When Sherlock became used to the rhythm, John leaned down and bit his arse, making Sherlock jump. “Payback,” John explained, but placed a kiss on the sore spot a moment later.

“I deserved that,” Sherlock admitted and pushed his arse back a bit. “More!”

“So pushy,” John chuckled, but he obliged him. It didn’t take long until Sherlock asked for a third, and finally for his cock. 

“I would love to fuck you on the carpet,” John said as he rolled the condom on himself, “but I don’t fancy your knees and elbows with carpet burn just now, so I think we’ll just stay here?”

“I don’t care John. Just do it.”

“Buckle up, then,” John said with a grin.

Sherlock was quiet for a second before he began shaking with laughter. 

“What?” John asked, placing his hands on Sherlock’s hips. 

Sherlock just laughed harder, pushing himself up and turning around to kiss John, still laughing. 

“What?” John asked again when Sherlock had calmed down. 

“That was terrible.”

“I know,” John smirked and Sherlock giggled again.

“Please refrain from telling any jokes before you’ve done what you came here to do.” He turned around again. 

“You,” John grinned and pushed him down, feeling his laughter against the palms of his hands.

Sherlock stayed quiet, probably knowing that whatever he said, John would turn into another joke. Instead, John had to calm himself down. Once again, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the trust Sherlock put in him, being so tactile and submissive. 

He cleared his throat and checked whether Sherlock was still relaxed, making him moan when he pushed two fingers in, probing gently.

“See, this wouldn’t be possible if I still wore my suit,” Sherlock commented once he had caught his breath. 

“Your fireproofs, however,” John left the sentence unfinished and Sherlock inhaled deeply. 

“The opportunity might arise,” he finally said and John snorted, causing Sherlock to chuckle in turn.

“We aren’t even drunk,” he complained. 

“True.” John smiled and carefully positioned himself against Sherlock, pushing in slowly. Sherlock grunted and froze for a few seconds, but John gently stroked the small of his back and he relaxed again. He allowed himself a small eternity until he pushed in all the way. 

“Move, please?”

“Sorry,” John leaned forward and kissed his back. He began to rock into him, closing his eyes against the pressure. 

When he opened them again, he could see Sherlock watch him in the reflection of the cup and he smiled. Sherlock moaned when he did and pushed back lightly.

For a while they continued like this, moving as one, hyper aware of each other. 

“I looked at your file,” Sherlock finally said, his hand settling on the folder under the trophy.

“Anything interesting?”

“I think you have to see it for yourself.”

John stopped moving. “What is it?”

“Don’t. It wasn’t my intention to interrupt anything.”

“You did, though. What is it?”

“The photos aren’t quite of the quality I expected from Mycroft.”

John sighed and pulled out of Sherlock, ignoring his indignant expression as he came to stand next to him and pulled the folder out from under the trophy. 

“John,” Sherlock tried, but John ignored him. He opened the folder and found three dozen pictures printed out, lying on top of what looked like his very own file compiled by the Home Office. John chose to ignore the implication thereof and began going through the photos. Most the of first ones were just of him, then a few of him and Mike, then the ones Mycroft had shown John to prove his supposed affair with Jenson, and then the photos of the two of them started. 

John’s mouth fell open when he saw them. There was rarely more than a few inches of space between the two of them on any of the photos. Even when they weren’t looking at each other, they stood much closer than a working relationship would justify. “Did you see this?” John asked and Sherlock nodded. 

“I did. Can we do this after?”

“You wanted me to see one photo in particular?” John guessed that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but that it had just sat on his tongue and it slipped out when he wasn’t in control.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and placed his hand on John’s. “It’s not in there anymore.”

“What?”

“I sent it home. I couldn’t have it here.”

“Sherlock, you keep doing this. You keep making plans without involving me and slowly I’m beginning to think that something big is coming my way and I have no idea what it is or how to prepare for it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will you tell me?”

“About what?”

“About why we are staying here. About the photo that isn’t in that folder anymore. About why you can’t seem to calm down today and you keep changing the subject whenever I get close to asking for details.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly, avoiding John’s eyes. 

“What is it?” John placed his index finger under Sherlock’s chin and pushed upwards until he was forced to look at him. 

“It’s a surprise.”

“I’m not necessarily fond of those.”

“I can’t tell you yet,” Sherlock bit his lip. “Please trust me?”

“Then why did you mention the folder even though you did not want me to see?”

“Because I forgot. I was distracted. I forgot that I can’t tell you yet.”

“ _You_. Forgot.” John sounded incredulous and Sherlock blushed. 

“You were a bit distracting,” he added quietly. 

“Is it a nice surprise?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“We’re not getting married, are we?” John thought of Jenson’s words earlier and the little announcement in Jenson’s hotel room a few days prior. He wasn’t sure what to think about the notion of marrying anyone, including Sherlock, but he felt his heart beating wildly. 

“One of us would have to propose first,” Sherlock said, slightly breathless. 

“Okay, good. So no wedding.”

Sherlock huffed. “No. Not a wedding. I’m not that dramatic.”

John looked at Sherlock, whose cheeks were still pink and who still seemed nervous about John’s wish to find out what he had planned. “Are you going to propose to me?” John asked, watching as Sherlock’s eyes widened, though he wasn’t sure whether it was surprise or barely suppressed panic. “Because if you were, I’d prefer if you didn’t do it in public.”

“God, John, stop talking about weddings and proposals. I don’t want to think of either right now and I did not plan on asking you.”

“Ever?”

“What?”

“Well.”

“I’ve known you for just three weeks!”

“I just want to make sure.”

“You don’t want to get married?”

John shrugged. “Never really thought about it.”

“Ever?”

John smiled at Sherlock’s quick thinking. 

“Well,” it was John’s turn to blush. “I don’t know. Not after three weeks?”

“So you’re not entirely opposed?”

“Are you?”

“What, opposed?”

“Proposing?”

“I just said … “

“That you weren’t planning.”

“Yes, I wasn’t.”

“But are you?” John felt his heart beat heavily inside his chest. Sherlock looked at him as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. 

“Are you?” Sherlock answered, his eyes piercing in the artifical light of the hotel room.


	97. Chapter Ninety-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here it goes: Once I find the time, I will put this into a properly formatted pdf. If any of you artists out there feel like creating a book cover for me, that would be more than amazing. 
> 
> And, as always, thank you SO much for your encouraging words and lovely comments. <3

For a small eternity they stared at each other, chests heaving with barely contained excitement about the mutual realisation that possibly, just possibly, getting married to each other was in the cards for them despite their doubts. 

“I am if you are,” John finally said, biting his lip. 

“That would be insane.”

John nodded. “It would be, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered after a moment and John froze. 

“As in, yes, I will?”

“You will?”

“You would marry me?” John asked, suddenly needing Sherlock to be very specific about his intentions. " _You_ would marry _me_?! 

“We wouldn’t have to get married right away,” Sherlock argued, ignoring John's question and thereby confirming it, and John nodded.

“No, but we could be engaged.”

“To confuse people?”

“No, because we would want to be.”

“Yes, but also to confuse people.”

“If by people you mean …”

“Mycroft. Yes. And my parents.”

“We’re not getting engaged so you can piss off your family,” John said sternly and Sherlock shook his head, smiling. 

“You misunderstand. By _confuse_ I mean to make them see that I’m okay. That I have found someone. That I don’t need them, because I have you.”

“You have me either way,” John said, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply and then he pulled John close, kissing him hard on the lips, his arms wrapping around his back tightly. 

John needed a moment to wrap his head around the conversation they had just had, and he was sure that none of it had anything to do with Sherlock’s secrets, as he was just as overwhelmed as he was.

“Bed,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips when Sherlock’s hands moved down his body and stopped at his arse, and John’s cock slowly hardened again after he had lost his erection when he was distracted by his file. 

Sherlock turned and pushed John towards the bed, pulling the condom off him as he made him sit and then lie on his back before dropping to his knees and sucking him into his mouth. John gasped and fisted at Sherlock’s hair, pulling him away from his cock and onto the bed. “Come here,” he smiled and climbed on top of him, kissing him hard, his hand slowly pulling both of them back into hardness. 

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Sherlock tried and John kissed him to silence him. 

“I’m not,” John smiled once he felt that Sherlock wouldn’t try to speak again. “Don’t move,” he pressed another kiss against his lips and then climbed off the bed to get the lube and a second condom. “Okay, never mind, do move up a bit,” he smiled as he stroked himself a couple of times before rolling on the condom. 

“Legs,” he asked and Sherlock spread them wide, biting his lip when John climbed onto the bed and knelt between them. John slicked himself up and pushed some more lube into Sherlock with his thumb before he moved closer and began stroking him as he pushed back into him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, but when John began to move, they shot open and John leaned down to kiss him. 

It did not take him long before Sherlock began to arch up and against him, desperate for release. 

“Shh,” John whispered against his chest. “Don’t come yet.”

“Then stop doing that,” Sherlock complained, jerking hard when John changed his angle slightly. 

“What?” John grinned and kissed him again. 

Sherlock growled and wrapped his arms around John, fingernails digging into his skin. John remembered that he still carried visible traces of Sherlock’s arousal on his back and the thought that Sherlock might add to them just then pushed him over the edge. 

Sherlock gasped loudly when John came and wormed his hand between their bodies, stroking himself furiously. It was a matter of seconds before he followed John. 

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured against John’s shoulder, still holding him tightly, even through his orgasm. “Fuck.”

John chuckled and kissed him hard, gasping into his mouth when he pulled out. Sherlock was quick to pull the condom off him and he discarded it on the bed, refusing to move away from John. He pulled him down again and wrapped his legs around him. 

“You’re not leaving this time,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you.”

John smiled and kissed his jaw before tucking his head into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder and cheek, his lips against Sherlock’s neck. For a long time, neither of them spoke and John slowly allowed exhaustion to settle inside of him. Being this close to Sherlock, feeling him breathe, feeling his skin against his own, the smell of sex and sweat not overwhelming, but definitely dominating, awakened a familiar longing in John. It was the same feeling of nostalgia he had felt in the old house at the Holmes estate and the same feeling he had had when he had looked at Sherlock's unmade bed in Baker Street. The feeling of belonging. 

“Let’s do it,” he whispered. For a moment, Sherlock didn’t react. Then he inhaled deeply.

“I thought we just had?”

John had to chuckle and he pushed himself up far enough to be able to look at Sherlock. “I never really thought I would want to marry anyone. Never even considered that it might be in the cards for me, because I knew I would never be the person my parents wanted me to be. And yes, we’ve known each other for such a short time but I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you, and just now, right here, I could stay like this forever.”

“That’s quite unrealistic,” Sherlock offered with a half smile, but John could see that he took his words very seriously. 

“I know. And we’ll have to shower eventually,” he kissed Sherlock gently, “but why not get married in Hawaii, too? It doesn’t have to be big, and Jenson could be the best man, since he’ll be there with us anyway.”

Sherlock gently touched John’s face, running his thumb across his cheek.

“We could always change our minds, of course, but the idea is growing on me," John offered.

“Have you really never thought of getting married? You are such a well adjusted young man.” 

John chuckled and shook his head. “No.”

“Me neither. Well, the idea of having someone lying naked on top of me after making love to me is something that never occurred to me as possible before, so marriage is rather a distant concept. But I think I cannot imagine my future without you being in it, and I guess that qualifies as an excuse to at least give it a try?”

John bit his lip and nodded. “I dare say it does.”

Sherlock smiled widely. “So, which one of us is going to propose?”

John chuckled and kissed him. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, would you do me the honour of signing a piece of paper in Hawaii this coming winter on which you agree to put up with my grumpy moods and my complaining about my shoulder and my frequent urge to take you to bed?”

Sherlock smiled, but suddenly he grew very serious and for a moment John feared that he had said something wrong, but then he nodded, silently, and John saw that he was biting the insides of his cheeks, blinking rapidly against impending tears. “I will, John. If you’ll have me, I will.”

John smiled widely, looking at him while his heart did funny things in his chest, taking in the perfect moment in which Sherlock was stuck between crying and smiling, trying to etch the moment into his brain to keep it forever. And then he realised that maybe he didn’t need to, because if all went well, Sherlock would be right there by his side for a very long time.

Suddenly John thought of Jenson’s remark and he had to laugh.

“What?” Sherlock asked, amused and yet not quite sure what to make of John’s mirth. 

“Jenson suggested that we elope.”

“Sure, let’s go to New York and start over,” Sherlock chuckled. 

“I was thinking Scotland, but alright.” John kissed him again, growing properly tired now that the adrenaline was slowly abating. “So it wasn’t why we’re staying longer, right?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “I truly did not think of asking you to marry me. I don’t think I’d have been brave enough to ask you.”

“I know,” John pushed his left hand into his hair. “I know that you don’t really trust this and that you don’t quite believe it, but that’s how it is and I don’t know if that will change. I think we’ve both been taught to be self sufficient and we both let that get to us more than we should have. But what I know for sure is that I meant it when I told you that I want flowers for each anniversary.”

Sherlock kissed him again and then rolled them over so he was on top of John. “Thank you for asking me. I’m … truly honoured. I know it’s probably not protocol to say that in answer to a proposal, but I am. And if you want me, I will be yours for as long as you want me.”

“Same,” John answered and hugged him tightly. 

“We should get cleaned up,” Sherlock suggested and John grinned.

“You just come a lot.”

“Well, I don’t know. What is the proper amount of come?”

John giggled and kissed him again, pushing until Sherlock rolled off him. For a moment, they lay next to each other, smiling at the ceiling and then at each other and John was about to say something sentimental when Sherlock held up his used condom and squinted at it. “Is that more or less in comparison?”

“Oh my god,” John shook his head and then snatched the condom away from Sherlock, rolling off the bed and getting rid of it before stepping into the shower. “Come here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock followed him, pretending to be upset by John spoiling his scientific research, but when he stepped into the shower with him, he kissed him and he did not stop again until John carefully pushed him away. “I would love to kiss you for the rest of my days, but we do need to clean up,” he murmured and Sherlock smiled, lips red from kissing. John felt his own lips and face burn because of Sherlock's stubble.

Even as they showered John noticed Sherlock losing strength. He yawned so widely his jaw cracked and when John embraced him again after they had washed, he could feel Sherlock sagging against him. “You’ll fall asleep on your feet if you’re not careful.”

“You can carry me,” Sherlock murmured against his neck and John sighed. 

“I wish I could and give me a few weeks and I’ll be fit enough to do it, but right now I can’t risk another injury.” 

“Okay, I’m going.” Sherlock almost stumbled out of the shower cabin and John put toothpaste on his toothbrush and tried to dry him as best he could while Sherlock brushed his teeth. Then he made sure Sherlock made it to the bed alright before he dried himself. 

Sherlock had crawled onto the bed and had come to lie on his stomach, his head cushioned by his right arm. For a moment John hesitated before he picked up his phone and took a picture. His skin looked golden in the light of the room’s lamps and John immediately loved the photo. 

If Sherlock noticed, he was too tired to voice his opinion.

So John climbed onto the bed and took another one of his face, relaxed and soft, with wet curls falling into his eyes. “I love you,” he whispered and pressed a kiss to his exposed cheek. “So much.”

Then he went to switch off the light and opened the window wide. For the first time, the evening breeze was properly cooling rather than adding to the heat. For a moment he stood naked by the window, looking at the darkness outside, wondering how life had become so brilliant so quickly. 

“John? Come to bed?” Sherlock asked, sounding half asleep. Smiling, John joined him in bed and pulled Sherlock against him, who inhaled deeply and pressed a tired kiss to John’s lips before he turned around and let John spoon him. 

John’s eyes fell shut after just a few moments and he nuzzled Sherlock’s neck, smiling to himself, glad for the coolness of Sherlock’s curls against his forehead. 

He woke up when Sherlock jerked violently and rolled away from him. Blue early morning light filled the room so John could see his face when Sherlock woke up with another start, staring at the ceiling first, breathing heavily. “John?” he asked, sounding scared, and John immediately reached out and touched his arm.

“I’m here.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around and for a moment John thought that he did not recognise him and he felt a flash of pain in his heart and gut that made him whimper. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Sherlock blinked a few times before he wiped his eyes and forehead, inhaling deeply, shakily, before making a pained sound. “Oh, thank God.”

“What is it?” John was fairly sure he had had a nightmare, and he knew how long it could take to come to terms with reality again. 

Sherlock just shook his head and closed his eyes, before he clasped John’s hand, breathing deeply. “I thought you’d gone. I saw you leave. You packed up and walked out without a word. I never knew what I had done to make you …”

“You had a bad dream, okay? I’m here. I’ll be here.” He remembered Sherlock’s frequent request that he should stay with him in bed after sex and he started to understand that it wasn’t a romantic trait of Sherlock’s, but an underlying fear of rejection and loneliness. 

“I thought it was because of the car, but I didn’t break her. You said it yourself. She’s just dented.” He took another shaky breath before turning on his side. “But you didn’t say anything. Nothing. I don’t know what I did to you to make you leave.” Silent tears ran across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek into his hair. “I tried to … I tried to say sorry but it wasn’t enough.”

“Hush, Sherlock. It was a bad dream, nothing more. I’m here. I won’t leave.”

“But you did …”

“I won’t leave you, Sherlock. I’ll marry the fuck out of you tomorrow if that helps you to know that I won’t.”

“What?” Sherlock finally focused on John’s face and recognition set in. 

“I mean, we agreed on Hawaii, right? But if you need me to, I’ll bloody marry you as soon as we find someone willing and able to do it.”

Sherlock gasped and then wiped at his face. “You said you would marry me,” he tried, carefully.

“I did. And you said yes when I asked. And we said it could be Hawaii for convenience and because we’ll have time to think about it until then.”

“And Jenson would be the best man because you will be his.”

John nodded and Sherlock finally stopped wiping at his eyes. 

“You asked me to marry you. As in, forever?”

“Quite.”

“That did happen.”

“It happened. And I am glad that I asked and even gladder that you accepted. Sherlock. There will be no walking out on you happening anytime soon. And if I do, I’ll be back. Even if you had driven the car to bits, I’d stay. Even if you drove yourself to bits,” he added, biting his lip. “I’d stay.” 

Sherlock nodded and exhaled loudly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” John finally dared to move closer and he pulled him into his arms, cradling him gently. 

“I thought I was beyond this.”

John kissed his hair and shook his head. “Must be the stress that comes with a race weekend. All of that falling away after.”

“I don’t want this to happen every time I fall properly asleep.”

“Is that why you sleep so little?”

Sherlock frowned and then nodded. “I think I trained my body to never truly relax.”

“Then we need to train it to not do this to you when you are relaxed. It worked in Scotland.”

Sherlock snorted derisively and John kissed him again. “I’m sure it’ll get better. It must.”

“When we drove back from Scotland you said that you are scared of it happening when you least expect it.”

John nodded. “I am. And this just now was terrifying, so I don’t blame you if you are scared, too.”

“But you were here, so it’s alright now.” He sounded too young and too vulnerable and John felt himself grow angry once more. Angry with the people in Sherlock’s past who had taught him to think that he did not deserve love. 

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” He pulled the blanket up, hoping that the cover would add some feeling of security. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “I never do except when I am with you.”

“See, at least some improvement.”

“It’s the only reason I keep you around,” Sherlock smiled and kissed John, the first kiss which he initiated since he had woken up. John hugged him close. 

“No dreams,” John whispered against his shoulder before he relaxed a bit to give Sherlock some room. “Except for sexy ones,” he added after a moment and Sherlock chuckled weakly. 

“I’ll dream of you in a wedding dress.”

“Why me?” John frowned at the back of his head. “I’ll get to wear a kilt.”

“My kilt?”

“You don’t even deserve one, not being Scottish and all.”

“It’s in my name, so it does count.”

“Bullshit,” John yawned. “And you get to wear a dress. Not a white one, though, 'cause you’re not a virgin anymore.”

John could feel Sherlock’s laughter rather than hear it. “Thank you, John,” he finally said and tugged at his hand to pull him closer and John pressed himself against Sherlock’s back and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, it was bright day. The temperature was fairly high again and John noticed that they had kicked off the covers while they had slept. Sherlock was still deeply asleep and for a moment John enjoyed the feeling of being rested but exhausted. 

Then he carefully pulled away and went into the bathroom, showering quickly and shaving while watching Sherlock sleep. Eventually he dressed in his pyjamas and left a note on the night stand to let Sherlock know that he was downstairs packing. 

John went by the breakfast room and got himself some coffee before he began putting away his clothes, the rest of the data sheets he had kept and the gear he had not sent off with the team. He’d take the race suits and work outfits to Woking to get them cleaned. Once he had finished he took half of his bags upstairs and left them in front of Sherlock’s room and the other half downstairs to leave them with the reception to have them shipped home. Then he checked out of his room and picked up Sherlock’s dry cleaning.

Finally, he returned to Sherlock’s room and used the key card he had taken from the night stand to let himself in. It was difficult to find another spot in Sherlock’s room to place his bags and when he shoved them into the niche between the wall and the bed on the far side of the room, he accidentally moved the bed stand which rocked against the wall, waking Sherlock up.

“John. What are you doing?” He sounded slightly hung-over and altogether too judgemental for someone who had been deeply asleep a second ago. 

“Morning,” John smiled widely at him. 

“Why are you so happy?” Sherlock rolled onto his back and glared at him with tired eyes. “And why are you so awake?”

“Because I had coffee, moved out of my room and I think I might be a tiny bit excited about what happened last night.”

“That’s very specific,” Sherlock yawned and still tried to uphold his grumpy expression through it all, making John laugh. 

“Idiot. Get up. Let’s have breakfast and then you tell me about that surprise of yours.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “We can’t go before I haven’t gotten a text.”

“Any random text or a specific text. Because I can text you and then we can go.”

“Why do you have to be like that?”

“This is me, pretending to be you.”

“I’m like that?”

“Much, much worse,” John chuckled and climbed on the bed. “Now get up while I am still in a good mood.”


	98. Chapter Ninety-Eight

“Fine,” Sherlock yawned again and then grabbed John’s shirt, pulling him down and on top of him. He grunted as if in pain, but he did not let go of John. 

“You okay?” John asked, stroking his face with his left hand while tugging at his curls with the right. 

“It’s a mystery that you are still here,” Sherlock said, all pretence gone from his voice. 

“As I said. I won’t leave.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you.”

John sighed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Stop thanking me. I don’t do it out of charity. I’m here because I want to be. Now get up. And then tell me whether I need to prepare myself mentally or physically for whatever it is you have planned.”

“We’re getting matching tattoos,” Sherlock said, watching John closely. “You mentioned you wanted to have my full name across your chest, so I thought I’d make that possible.”

John giggled and kissed him. “Nah, what are you really up to?”

“Tattoos, as I said.”

John stopped in his motion to kiss his chest and stared at him. “You’re fibbing.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Henna.”

“Ink.”

“Sharpie.”

“Ink.”

John shook his head. “You were disgusted by my proposition. You would never let me do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” John nodded and went on to kiss his chest.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine, no tattoo then.”

“No, no tattoo.”

“I know you know what the surprise is,” Sherlock grew serious, pulling him up to be able to look at him face to face. “You’ve been ignoring it for a while, not asking the right question, not suggesting. But I know you will be okay.”

John felt his heart pick up speed and for a moment he felt the familiar and despised tugging of utter fear at the edge of his mind, but then he looked at Sherlock’s face, meeting his eyes, gentle and equally insecure about it all, and he found that he could breathe normally, and that he did not feel numb or close to a panic attack. “You want to race me.”

While Sherlock’s expression remained as it was, open and vulnerable, his eyes lit up in a private smile that John had seen only very few times. “Only if you want to, of course,” he finally said and pressed his lips together. 

“On the track?”

“Yes.”

“In what cars?”

“That’s part of the surprise,” Sherlock’s smile spread from his eyes to his face. “But I assure you that you’ll be okay.”

“And I get to race you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“On the track. In a car.”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to kick my arse.”

“Only metaphorically. Your arse is much too precious to be kicked.”

“Oh god.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know. Promise that you won’t let me chicken out?”

“Umm, no. It’s your decision. I can only offer you the opportunity and a little motivation, but you have to be the one to get into the car and do it.”

“Okay,” John felt light headed and he knew that it was much easier to agree from the safety of the hotel room that it was from inside a car, but despite it all, he still did not feel the tell tale signs of a panic attack that he had felt every time he had considered getting back behind the wheel for the past year, excluding the relatively relaxed tours on the motorways. 

He knew it couldn’t be Formula One cars as his insurance still didn’t cover them, even though he built them, but he was free to ride anything between a Vauxhall and a Lamborghini.

“Do you feel up for it?” John remembered that Sherlock had been exhausted and even now he looked like he would rather spend the day in bed.

“I think I’m just fit enough to not have an unfair advantage.”

John chuckled and kissed him. “A little overconfident, are we?”

“Rightfully so,” Sherlock shrugged before he cracked a smile. “Don’t worry. Once you are back in the seat I’m sure you’ll find your speed again.”

John exhaled slowly and then pulled back and climbed off the bed. “Come on. Get up.”

“Why? I haven’t received the text yet.”

“Yes, but we are going to have breakfast and then we have to figure out what to do with all of that…” he pointed at the pile of gift boxes. 

“You can have them,” Sherlock shrugged, not moving at all.

“You’ll regret saying that,” John smiled and picked up the box that had been sent by McLaren. It was full of high quality merchandise and John grinned as he produced a watch, a decanter and two whisky tumblers, several ties and cufflinks, two crisp white shirts and a booklet with hotel coupons. 

“I don’t want any of that,” Sherlock sounded bored, so John put it all back into the box and placed it next to his luggage. “I can’t wear the watch, though. Because it’s a special edition that only winning drivers get and you cannot buy it anywhere.”

“So I gave it to you because you built me Molly.”

“It’s still jewellery.”

“Umm, John. Are we not going to be wearing rings?”

John sat down on the bed and looked at Sherlock’s worried face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what would happen to your careers.”

Sherlock nodded. “You’re right, of course.” He chewed on his lip.

“But?” John offered and Sherlock sat up and leaned over to kiss him.

“If I sign a driver’s contract and everyone on the team knows about us, they couldn’t really let me go for that reason. Sponsors might pull out, but I’m sure there would be others.”

“And if we don’t comment.”

Sherlock smiled. “We’d just have identical rings when we come back next season.”

“You do want rings, don’t you?”

“Better than tattoos,” Sherlock shrugged but John felt a small spark of happiness in his stomach.

“Let’s get rings then.”

“And you get that watch.”

John bit his lip. “It has your name engraved on the back.”

“Good,” Sherlock smiled. “Now, you mentioned breakfast.” He pulled John back onto the bed properly and began kissing him gently before he moved down to his chin and along his neck, pulling his shirt up over his stomach only to move his lips there, kissing the exposed skin.

“Oh god,” John gasped and pushed his hands into Sherlock’s hair. 

Sherlock seemed to read that particular move as encouragement and opened John’s belt and a moment later his flies. 

“Sherlock? Sher…” he stopped talking when Sherlock pulled him into his mouth, and moaned. 

Sherlock pushed at his trousers and pants to gain better access, but he took his time, moving very slowly and stopping occasionally, just holding him. Then his tongue darted out and he teased him, making him desperate for more pressure. 

“Fuck. Where did you learn how to do that?” John gasped, trying hard to keep from arching into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock made an amused sound and pulled away. “You do remember what my real job is.”

“Being impossibly attractive for my pleasure?”

Sherlock offered a judgemental frown and John laughed and moved up to kiss him. “You drive cars?”

“I test drive them.”

“So, you are test driving?”

Sherlock grinned and pulled on John’s hips until he had enough room to lie down on his back. Then he kissed John’s stomach again. “You are my test track. And I believe I’ve got the basics down, so now I get to advance the testing.”

“Is that so?”

Sherlock nodded and blew a raspberry against John’s stomach. “It is. And I am quite successful it seems.”

“Yeah, you’re not bad.”

Sherlock looked up, scandalised, and John giggled.

“By all means, continue.”

Sherlock smirked and happily went to work again. It wasn’t long until he pushed his own hips rhythmically against the mattress and John reached out to squeeze his arse. “Come here,” he murmured and pulled at his hip until Sherlock moved closer to him and he could reach him. 

First he simply held him, but soon Sherlock began moving his hips again. So John wrapped his hand around him and let Sherlock do the work for a while, pleasing both John and himself. Eventually John felt that Sherlock grew too self assured, driving him to distraction by getting him close and then stopping again, so he began working against him, speeding up when Sherlock grew slower and moving very slowly when he sped up. 

It did not take long until Sherlock groaned in frustration and glared at John, who grinned and sped up again. 

For a while they continued like this, distracting each other just enough to keep each other from coming. Finally, Sherlock seemed to have enough and moved his hips back and out of John’s reach while focusing entirely on getting John to the edge, and then to keep him there. 

And John couldn’t quite believe it. He was sure Sherlock would have enough and would go in for the kill several times before he realised that he made quite sure that John was ready to let go only to be hauled back in. The first few minutes amused John, but after a while he realised that he grew increasingly frustrated and when Sherlock stopped once more, he took matters into his own hands only to find Sherlock on top of him, pressing his wrists together above his chest. 

“No.” His lips were red and wet and John wanted nothing more than to kiss him. He was sure that if Sherlock would kiss him right then he would come just from that. 

“Are you trying to gain an unfair advantage?” John gasped.

Sherlock shook his head. “Absolutely not. I can feel every muscle in my body and half of them are not doing what they should be doing and I am tired and worn out and …” he stopped, a small frown forming on his face. “What am I saying? I just enjoy doing this to you,” he bit his lower lip and grinned. “A lot.”

“Well, thanks for being honest,” John tried to look stern but knew from Sherlock’s amused expression that he failed spectacularly. “Would it be too much to ask if you might finish your experiment within the next, you know, few minutes so that I will be able to feel my legs today?”

Sherlock pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and smirked. “I might.”

“Oh god,” John groaned and relaxed his wrists, causing Sherlock to let go of him.

“No touching.”

“Fine, but please …”

“Yes?”

John shuddered under Sherlock’s keen eyes. “Just … do it. Do what you want to do.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and John wanted to take his words back, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t let him if he tried. 

Sherlock shifted around a bit, trying to find a comfortable position, before he went back to what he had been doing. He brought John to the edge twice and just when John was about to yell at him, he sucked him in deeply and John exploded against the roof of his mouth. 

Bravely, Sherlock held on, pushing John’s convulsing hips down while trying not to choke. John had lost all control of his body, jerking hard against him, his fingers digging into the bed, every breath a loud moan. 

For a few seconds, John wasn’t sure he’d ever stop coming and his body continued to shake and jerk and even Sherlock’s hands on his hips did not quite manage to hold him down. Finally he escaped him and curled up, shielding himself from any further attention Sherlock might want to pay his cock. He spent a small eternity gasping for breath.

Even Sherlock’s hand on his back seemed too much for a moment and he jerked again, biting the base of his thumb to be able to shift his focus. The next time Sherlock touched him, he melted against the palm of his hand, unfolding his body and letting Sherlock embrace him. 

“Fucking hell, Sherlock.” John inhaled deeply and blinked a couple of times just to get his sense of reality back. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and John pulled back to look at him. He must have choked a bit when he had tried to swallow as his eyes were a bit red and John was sure that his eyelashes were wet. But Sherlock just shrugged. “I conclude that the test run was successful, even more so than I expected.” His voice was a bit off and John stared at him for a moment before he kissed him hard. 

“Are you feeling alright, Sherlock? You don’t have to swallow, you know that, right?”

“I wanted to and I’m fine, thank you.”

“Just … because you sound hoarse and … well … that is actually quite … sexy.”

“The hoarseness or the reason for it.”

John chuckled. “The latter. I do feel sorry for your vocal chords and prefer your amazing voice the way it usually is.”

“You find my voice amazing?” Sherlock seemed honestly surprised and John would have blushed if he hadn’t been so exhausted.

“Yes. Yes I do. It’s bloody amazing and I will never get tired of listening to you, especially when you are being rude.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Of all the possible things you could have said, that is the one that you like the most?”

“It’s not by choice, Sherlock. But when you get a little arrogant and annoyed and then you suddenly remember that you like me …”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m only telling you this because you sucked my brain out and I have no control over what I’m saying.”

“Is that so?”

“Shut up and kiss me,” John chuckled before Sherlock could think of any other questions whose answers he might regret later. 

The kiss lasted for about as long as Sherlock’s blowjob had and John was ready to go back to sleep when Sherlock’s phone chimed. 

Sherlock made an annoyed sound but he pulled away and fished for the phone on the night stand. He wiped his face before he read the text. 

“Oh.”

“What?”

Sherlock scrunched up his face and scratched the back of his neck nervously. 

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“There’s something that I haven’t told you and it wouldn’t have been necessary, though you would have guessed it yourself once you’d seen how we are doing to drive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We need to get dressed.”

John looked down on himself and shrugged, pushing his shirt down and doing up his trousers. “Done.”

Sherlock giggled and kissed him. “We’re meeting Mycroft for lunch downstairs.”

John frowned, not quite wanting to believe that a perfect morning had just tken a decided step into the wrong direction.

“I’m sorry, John. I had no choice.”

John sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Well, at least I’m literally fucking exhausted and you’re losing your voice because you gave me a blow job. I think there could be worse times to meet your brother.”

“Will you be alright? You don’t have to come. I could just tell him that you don’t want to see him.”

“No, Sherlock. I will be there with you this time. I won’t let him talk to you like he did in our flat.”

Sherlock’s worried expression changed into a happy one and for a moment John wondered whether Sherlock simply accepted the fact that John was overprotective of him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock pressed his lips together in a small smile. “You just said our flat.”

John cocked his head to one side to look at Sherlock, utterly wrecked from a long night and their recent activities, unshaven and unkempt, looking so goddamned gorgeous to John that for a moment he considered just cancelling any kind of plans Sherlock had made for the day and stay in bed, but then he realised that Mycroft probably played some part in Sherlock’s plans to get John to race him and he reconsidered.

“Go have a shower and I’ll find you something to wear today.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, please, darling.”

John grinned and flipped him off. “Your suits are back, by the way. Cleaned and pressed. So if you want to …”

Sherlock shook his head. “Whatever you choose.” 

“Fine. No underwear.”

“Not until we change into our suits anyway.”

“Which will have to happen in separate rooms.”

“Oh, John, please, we’re not that desperate.”

“Speak for yourself,” John chuckled and Sherlock walked into the bathroom with a snort. 

John checked himself in the full body mirror by the door, trying to flatten his hair to look less wrecked than he truly was. The love bite on his neck was only the most obvious indicator of their relationship. Considering Mycroft Holmes’s strange abilities to read people, which seemed to match Sherlock’s both in accuracy and misinterpretation, he would know what had happened anyway. In the end he shrugged and turned around, pulling up his t-shirt. 

He gingerly touched the red streaks he could reach without trouble, smiling to himself. “In so much trouble,” he murmured, mentally agreeing with Sally on that account. 

“What?” Sherlock had come out of the bathroom, rubbing at his hair with a towel. 

John turned his back towards him, still holding up the shirt. 

“Sorry?” Sherlock tried and John chuckled. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Do they hurt?” Sherlock reached out and gently followed one of the streaks with his finger. 

“Not really. I can feel that, but they don’t hurt.”

“Should I worry about your tolerance for pain?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s not bad, Sherlock. Please don’t feel bad about this.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“No you won’t,” John shook his head. “Please don’t.”

“So, umm. What do I wear?”

“Oh, right.” John shook his head at himself and then when to his own bag. He threw a shirt at him, knowing that it would be a tiny bit too tight for him. “And jeans. You do own jeans, right?”

Sherlock snorted. “I do, in fact, own jeans.” He dug deep in his bag and produced a pair and John watched him pull them on. 

As Sherlock stood there, barefoot and without a shirt, his hair still wet and two days worth of scruff, and decidedly unaware of how amazing he looked, John felt entirely sure that he would want this man in his life for the rest of his days.

He swallowed hard. Sherlock pulled the t-shirt over his head and John licked his lips, grinning when he found that he had been right. The t-shirt was too tight. “How do I look?” Sherlock asked and John just snorted. 

“Let’s go.”

They put on their shoes and Sherlock grabbed his key card and ushered John out of the room.

The hotel’s restaurant was almost empty and Mycroft Holmes sat in the far corner, looking exactly like he had in Silverstone. John inhaled deeply as they made their way towards him. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gave his little brother a telling look before he turned his head to look at John. His eyes flicked from John’s face to his hands and then up his body until their eyes met again. “John Watson.”

Sherlock pulled a chair out from under the table and made John sit before he sat down next to him. “Have you done what I asked of you?”

Mycroft nodded and managed to look like he was in pain, though John suspected it was just an act and an attempt to make John feel like they were wasting his time. They probably were, too, but John couldn’t care less. 

“I took the liberty of ordering lunch,” Mycroft eventually said and folded his hands on the table. “I take it you won’t mind if I have a little wine with mine. You’ll have water, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock echoed him and John could see how Mycroft tried to keep from rolling his eyes. 

“Ordering cake for lunch, are you?” John asked with his best fake smile and both brothers stared at him. Mycroft seemed scandalised and Sherlock immensely amused.

“You received your file, I trust?” Mycroft asked John in lieu of answering his enquiry. 

“I did,” John kept his smile, knowing that there was only one way to annoy Mycroft and that was by not getting angry. He had made that mistake once and he wouldn’t make it a second time. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly nervous as if he didn’t trust that his brother had done him another favour. John wondered when the handing over of illegally collected personal material had become a favour and not a legal necessity. He also understood once more why Sherlock’s childhood had been so immensely disturbing. If his brother was the perceived good guy in the family, he truly did not want to know what Sherlock’s parents were like. 

“I know, brother mine, patience.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, clearly ready to get loud, so John placed a hand on his back and gently stroked his thumb up and down, hoping he could calm Sherlock down. When he leaned lightly into his touch, he knew it had worked. “When can we go.”

“They are securing the track at the moment. Half an hour maybe.”

“Good, let’s go,” Sherlock was half out of his chair when he met Mycroft’s thunderous glare and dropped back down. 

“Lunch first.”

John looked at Sherlock with a pained expression and Sherlock shook his head. “Go ahead and eat. We’ll take something to the track.”

He was up before Mycroft could hold him back. “John, come on.”

John was very tempted to give Mycroft a piece of his mind, but if he had a hand in making it possible for him to drive then maybe, just maybe, he started to understand that he would not get rid of John anytime soon. Or ever, he thought, a real smile replacing the fake one. 

He turned away from Mycroft, but he could see him frown, having caught the smile. 

Sherlock told the restaurant staff that they would like their lunch to go, but to please serve Mycroft. John was waiting for him to ask them to have Mycroft pay, but instead he had it put on his room’s bill. “Business lunch,” he shrugged. 

They went back to Sherlock’s room to grab their wallets and phones, but when John wanted to get a suit and fireproofs, Sherlock shook his head. “It should all be there.”

“Can we walk?” John asked when they stepped out of the hotel, noting the conspicuously expensive black limousine in the driveway. 

“Absolutely,” Sherlock agreed. 

They did not talk much and walked quickly, but John was glad for the exercise. It took his mind off what lay ahead of them. 

It was strange to see the town so calm after the storm. Only a handful of people were outside and when they came to the track it was deserted. There were some last minute wrap ups going on in the paddock and the boxes were being cleaned, but when they came to the northern end of the paddock, John saw two cars sitting on the tarmac side by side. 

His breath caught and he instinctively reached out to clasp Sherlock’s hand. “How did he get her here?”

“I thought since it’s the only car I know of that you have built apart from Molly and since you know exactly how she runs, you could drive her.”

John stared at his own car, recently polished and shining in the sun like a jewel. The other car was a poppy red Alfa Romeo 156 E1. 

“I tried to find a car that was comparable to yours in speed and power,” Sherlock explained, squeezing John’s hand. 

“So that’s how your brother was involved? He got the cars here?”

“It was the least he could do by way of an apology to you.”

John huffed. “Do you trust him?”

“What?”

“If he did something to my car …”

“Oh, John. No. Don’t worry. He wouldn’t do that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Absolutely. He would never risk my life.”

“What?”

“Well,” Sherlock stood a little closer. “I had my concerns about his … opinion of you … so I told him I would drive both cars.”

“Oh my god,” John stared at him. “That is the most fucked up … no, actually, it isn’t, is it? It’s really rather typical of your brother.”

Sherlock sighed. “You’re right. But both cars are safe and have been pre-checked and checked again once they were unloaded. And now we can take a look.” 

John remained rooted to the spot, so when Sherlock tried to walk away, their hands separated and Sherlock immediately turned around, almost falling over his feet. “John?”

“I’m sorry, I just need a moment.”

“Alone?”

John nodded. “You can go and get changed if you want. I’ll be here.”

Sherlock stepped into John’s personal space, unsure whether it was safe to kiss him. John sighed and gently placed his hand against Sherlock’s chest. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock licked his lips and pressed John’s hand quickly before he moved away towards a trailer that stood by the track. John watched him until he had disappeared behind its door before he returned his gaze to his own car. 

He remembered putting her together, always nervous, always afraid of doing something wrong. He remembered the day Mike had helped him with the tyres. The day he had met Sherlock for the first time had been the day on which he had been glad to not have to face his fears and yet … he had done so much more even on that day, including getting out of his panic attack on the motorway alive and without any emotional scars. 

Mike had been so positive that he could do it and John had been terrified. Sherlock had been a heaven-sent relief and the perfect excuse so he did not have to think about it all. 

And now he had spent a couple of weeks putting cars together. He had driven his own and he had seen Sherlock drive Molly and nothing had gone wrong. Not a single thing had happened to either of them that would justify his fear. 

And Sherlock had faced Victor. He had faced Victor and he was okay. They hadn’t talked about him for days and John had no reason to think that they would again anytime soon. 

He walked down to his car. The keys were already in the ignition, but John pulled them out and opened the bonnet, finding that nothing had been touched. When he sat down in his car, nothing was different, only Sherlock was missing next to him. 

When he looked out of the side window, he saw Sherlock emerging from the trailer, wearing a new suit. It was black and red and he carried his skull helmet under his arm. 

John rolled down the window and waited until he had approached the car. “That’s a good look.”

Sherlock grinned. “Go get dressed. You look like you’re ready to go.”

“How did you do that?” John asked after he had climbed out of the car.

“What exactly?”

“All of this? Know when I was ready. Have the car here for this.”

“I must admit it was a bit tricky. Lots of paperwork in between work. But thankfully you didn’t really ask that many questions, so I could pretend this was for work.”

“But you said the paperwork was something long term.”

“Oh, part of it is. We haven’t gotten to that part of the surprise yet,” Sherlock smiled and began walking away towards the trailer again. John squinted at the silver letters on the back of Sherlock’s suit. 

_W.S.S.H.  
Powered by J.H.W._

“Sherlock?”

“You like it?” Sherlock had obviously anticipated John’s noticing of the back print. “They offered to print a sponsor’s ad on the back, so I just made one up.”

“This is stupidly romantic.”

“Isn’t it just?” he grinned and opened the door to the trailer. Inside, John found a bag with his name printed on the side. The first thing he found inside of it were a water bottle and a set of fireproof underwear, and underneath a balaclava, a suit, shoes, gloves and a helmet. The helmet had a half Scottish half English design and a large _Doctor Watson_ written on it. 

John stared at Sherlock who looked very proud of himself. “How in the world … how did you have time to think of all of that? And I didn’t think you’d remember that conversation in the pub.”

“How could I forget? It was the first time in my life that I felt an ‘I told you so’ was justified. You also called that woman ‘darling’ and I … well, it was … interesting.”

“You were jealous of her?”

“No.”

“But it was interesting?”

“Well …”

“You _were_ jealous of her.”

“It just contributed to … well, the events that occurred when we came home.”

“Events?” John grinned as Sherlock grew ever more flustered. 

“You were very … in charge that night.”

John chuckled. “And you were on your best behaviour.”

“John, can we please talk about something else?”

John smirked and stepped closer, brushing his knuckles against the front of Sherlock’s suit. “I might be scared of driving, but we didn’t really discuss fair play, did we?”

“Go get dressed,” Sherlock said sternly, his hands at his sides and not moving even when John turned his hand around and gave him a squeeze. 

Eventually, John began stripping down, making sure to give Sherlock something of a show, but even as he stood naked in the trailer, his mind whispered to him that he was about to drive on a race track and that drawing this out wouldn’t make it any easier. 

When he was finally dressed, he found that Sherlock’s suit front was indeed very tight and he grinned. “You can’t possibly go out there like this.”

“Watch me,” Sherlock said stiffly and held his helmed in front of his crotch as he stalked ahead and towards the red car. 

“Cheat,” John grinned and followed him. 

Sherlock ignored him. “There’s radio.” He handed John a headset and a clip on radio. It’s just the two of us, no conning board or technical supervision. If you feel that your car doesn’t go the way it should, you stop. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want me to do. If there is trouble, locals are on standby. The track is secure and watched, flags at the ready and all.”

“Okay,” John exhaled shakily. “Anything else?”

Sherlock smiled at him. “Enjoy it.”

“Right.”

“It’s your choice, John. You can always stop.”

“Keep talking to me, please?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep the line open.”

“Me, too.”

“Good. Ready?”

“Almost,” John nodded and then grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled him close, kissing him hard on the lips. “Now I’m ready.”


	99. Chapter Ninety-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for every kind word and every key smash :D  
> Here is the thing I did not think I would write, as for a long time, I thought that John's work in the garage brought enough healing. But I was wrong, clearly. John needs his shot at closure a chapter in his life as much as Sherlock needed it.

John sat down in his car and put on his helmet. Then he checked the radio, asking Sherlock to confirm whether he could hear him and to say something back. 

“You better don’t hold back.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I will race you properly, so please do me the honour of actually trying?”

“Are you serious?”

“Positive.” Sherlock did not say anything else after that, so John did not try to get him to chat anymore.

He turned the key in the ignition and made sure that his seatbelt was doing its job before he carefully let go of the clutch and pushed down on the gas. He felt his hands shake a bit, so he forced himself to breathe evenly and reminded himself that he had driven this car all the way to Scotland. Well, almost. But he knew he could drive it, he just never allowed the car to drive according to its true potential.

Actually a waste, John thought to himself, making a plan to buy himself a normal car instead of driving an actual race car to work every day. 

“I’m ridiculous,” John said out loud as he slowly steered the car down the track. 

“Be more specific.”

“I built this car and drove to Woking with it. To Woking!”

“Yes. And?”

“Like a toff.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You aren’t one, so that’s alright.”

“I used to make fun of Lestrade driving his Vauxhall to work. I think I should get one and use this one for the real thing.”

“The real thing being?”

“This.”

“Driving down the Hockenheimring at 30 miles per hour?”

“I’m just getting to know the track.”

“Right, that’s why you are looking at me through your rear-view mirror while we chat.”

John grinned. “Well, there are different ways of getting to know the track. And I want to enjoy having you behind me while I can.”

“You should get a Golf if you really want a new car.”

“A Golf, really?”

“Or, you know, you could start noticing the admiring glances people give you when you pass them on the motorway. I’m sure a lot of them felt quite happy that you took her down to Woking. Few exciting things happen on the road there after all.”

“They give me admiring glances?”

“You really should pay a little more attention to other things then me and the road when you drive.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not that bad.”

“Will you speed up already?”

“Fine,” John made a face at the reflection in his mirror, feeling immediately silly as his helmet hid any kind of facial expression, and accelerated the car. He kept his eyes on Sherlock behind him, especially when he came close in the corners. 

“You look good like this,” he said when Sherlock came to a halt next to him on the start and finish line. 

“What is _this_?”

“The car, your suit. Everything.”

Sherlock looked at him and pushed up his visor, his eyes still standing out despite the shade of the car and the helmet. “You, too.” 

John smiled to himself as he turned to look at the track. It was strange holding the steering wheel with gloves and his vision was slightly impaired by the helmet, but they also gave him a sense of security. “When do we go?”

“You just go.”

“Is this a trick?”

Sherlock chuckled. “You will wish it were one.”

John turned his head once more to look at Sherlock and then pushed down hard on the accelerator. The car shot forward and for a second John felt shocked by how much power the car unleashed underneath him. But then he reached the Nordkurve and pulled in to the right, setting himself ahead of Sherlock who immediately pulled out to the left in order to get past him. 

“Not going to happen,” he said to himself. He knew Sherlock had heard it, but he did not want to concentrate on it – yet. 

They both slowed down at the Ecclestone Kurve, as if to honour their own little secret spot before they shot ahead again. The hairpin almost cost John his lead but he managed to set himself just ahead of Sherlock again and sped up immediately after shooting out of the corner. 

“You can do better than that,” Sherlock murmured in his ear and John sniffed. 

“I’m trying, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said and within five seconds had placed himself in front of John. He was ahead by a four car lengths as they finished the first lap. 

“Oh fuck me,” John cursed loudly and was met with Sherlock’s chuckle. 

“I told you …”

“Yeah, well,” John pushed his shoulders back and stepped down on the gas again. He wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was just doing it to please him or whether his car was really that good, but he managed to stay close behind Sherlock for quite some time. After four laps, he finally tried to overtake him. Sherlock closed the door on him time and time again and while John knew he should be growing frustrated like Jenson had, he was so happy to see Sherlock drive so beautifully this closely that he found that he didn’t care. 

John learned that Sherlock was faster on the straights, but that his car oversteered a bit in the corners and that was when he could come closer again. His own car did beautifully. 

When they entered the Motodrom, John purposefully let himself drift a little to the left of the ideal line and then pushed ahead and suddenly he was next to Sherlock, door to door, almost, and John knew that he needed to pass him to avoid having to swerve too close to the wall. He held his breath as he jammed his gear from fourth into second and let his motor howl as he pushed forward, changing quickly into the third, but still pulling hard, still next to Sherlock. 

He eased the car into fourth gear and pushed down on the gas when he came out of the final corner a split second earlier than Sherlock and suddenly he was in front of him again. 

He wasn’t quite sure how he had managed but he placed himself firmly on the ideal line of the track and managed to keep Sherlock behind him for the entire pits straight. When they entered the Nordkurve, John actually laughed for joy. 

Sherlock’s car slowed down a bit and John checked in his mirror whether anything was visibly wrong with the car, but he couldn’t see anything. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

Sherlock sniffed. “Yes, fine.”

“What? What’s going on? Are you upset I managed to pass you?”

Sherlock made a noise that could have been laughter, or a sob.

John slowed down the car, too and waited until Sherlock had caught up with him. They both stopped on the track and John unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over to roll down the left window. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock didn’t take off his helmet, but he sniffed again. 

“Are you crying?”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply and John smiled. 

“Alright, good, I mean, there would be nothing wrong with crying, but I’m not quite sure why you would.”

“I’m not, though.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“So we go again?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock edged his car forward and John quickly closed the window and buckled up to follow him towards the Bernie Ecclestone Kurve. Together, they slowly sped up, taking the corners more daringly than before, letting each other pass just to attack again, even if they weren’t going at full race speed. 

John smiled hard every time he saw the red car slip behind him and he vowed to catch Sherlock again whenever he passed him. When they came back to the start and finish line, they were going at quite a decent speed again. John placed himself in front of Sherlock in the Nordkurve, remembering how to drive there to close the door on Sherlock’s attempt of driving past him on the inside of the corner. 

“Are there stakes?” John asked when they continued playing mouse and cat for another two laps. 

“Oh, you want to make this a competition?”

“I thought that was what got you all hot and bothered in the first place.”

“Well, seeing you drive like this is quite the reward in itself.”

“Is it?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, it is.”

“Care to share what exactly?”

“No, not while I’m driving.”

John chuckled. “That filthy, huh?”

Sherlock’s car gave an obvious jerk as he accidentally stepped down harder on the accelerator than he had probably intended. 

John giggled and overtook him again, and this time he decided to not let him pass. He pushed hard, trying to see where the car’s limit was and he managed to bring her up to 200 mph on the straight after the hairpin before he had to brake again. 

Sherlock was still behind him and even when he drove past the start and finish line, he was fast enough to stay in front. He managed for another two laps before he began to feel his hands shake with exhaustion. 

“I’m coming in,” he said and slowed down, watching Sherlock shoot past him before slamming down on the brakes and turning the car 180°, leaving a lot of rubber on the track beneath him. “Show-off,” John chuckled. 

Sherlock slowly steered the car towards him and John drove down the pit lane and parked his own car where just yesterday Sherlock’s car had stood. Sherlock parked next to him. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything, but then John pulled off his helmet and balaclava and detached the radio, rolling down his window instead, waiting for Sherlock to do the same. 

When Sherlock pulled off his helmet, John could see that he had clearly shed a few tears and he pushed open his door and got in with Sherlock, pulling off his balaclava and leaning over to be able to kiss him.

Then he kissed away the tears on his cheeks and pulled his gloves off to very carefully wipe them from Sherlock’s eyes. “There.”

“You did it,” Sherlock said, his voice a little rough. He cleared his throat. “You did it and nothing happened.”

“I beat you, that’s what happened.”

“Only because I am sore.”

John gave him a look that made him laugh. 

“Yes, fine, you’re sore, too. But still. I don’t make this claim lightly. I underestimated how the race yesterday would affect my body.”

“Yeah, we’re definitely starting a work-out routine.”

“Is that code?” Sherlock asked and John laughed and kissed him again. 

“No, it’s not.” 

“But John,” Sherlock started, placing a hand on his cheek. “You just drove a race car on a race track at racing speed.”

John felt an odd inner resistance against letting that sink in.

“And you had fun,” Sherlock added for stress. 

“I did, didn’t I?”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Can you take me?”

“What?”

“Can you still drive or are you too exhausted? I know I am, but I would love to be your navigator while you drive.”

Sherlock smirked. “So you want to order me around the track?”

John grinned. “Yes, yes that is precisely what I want to do.”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock pushed the headphones back in place and pulled on his balaclava and helmet. John got his kit from his own car and copied him, feeling nothing but excitement and joy. 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before he inhaled deeply and started the car again. He took the first lap slowly, allowing John to count down the turns, but on his way down the pits straight he accelerated and John found himself breathless, counting down the corners when they were already half through them and by the second lap he just gave up and concentrated on breathing. 

“You okay, John?”

“Umm, yes,” John answered, prompting Sherlock to go even faster. 

John forced his body to go with the car and not against it and even though he was breathless throughout, he appreciated that Sherlock did not make any sudden moves and that he had complete control of the car. Finally, when John had gotten used to his driving style, he looked away from the track and watched Sherlock.

He was entirely calm, every move practiced and sure and for three laps John felt the happiest he could ever remember feeling. 

He loved this. He loved being taken down the track by a man he trusted with his life. He loved the grace with which they moved forward and the speed of the straights. He loved that nothing about this seemed wrong, even though it had been him in front of the steering wheel just a few minutes ago. He had not panicked and he felt as far away from a panic attack as he thought was possible. 

And his body remembered the adrenaline, the joy, the feeling that this was what he had been born to do. 

He had to think back at Thomas McMurdo’s words and he inhaled deeply. _Turn around and walk the other way_. He had stopped thinking about driving for much longer than he ever had before. Before meeting Sherlock he had regretted his fear every day. He had been longing to drive but he had also known that it was impossible and it had crippled him. 

Now he sat in a car next to Sherlock Holmes, a rookie who had won the only two races he had driven in the royal league of racing, and he wasn’t in pain and he wasn’t afraid. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“When you’ve quite finished looking at me would you consider taking on the track backwards?”

“What?” John was more irritated by being called out on gazing at Sherlock than his suggestion to drive the track the wrong way around, but he did not clarify that to Sherlock. “Umm, well, why not?”

“We’ll need to come in for refuelling in five laps if we keep going like this.”

“So let’s do the five laps.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said happily and swerved the car around in the Sachskurve, breaking away from the track only to come out on the north-east end of the turn and re-entering the track. 

“Fuck,” John said loudly. “A word of warning wouldn’t have gone amiss.”

“Too late for that.”

“No shit,” John huffed and Sherlock looked at him. 

“Alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Not sure about my heart, though.”

“Apologies.”

“Just go,” John couldn’t help but smile, feeling that nothing could really get him out of the zone he was currently in. 

Sherlock quietly commented on the track as he took the corners in reverse order. “It’ll be good for the tyres in any case.”

“Because that’s what you really care about.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say care … oh, you were being sarcastic.”

“Oh, have your multitasking skills deserted you?”

“Multitasking is a myth,” Sherlock started but then he was busy navigating them around the Nordkurve and into the Motodrom he lost track of his thought.

“Case in point,” John teased and squeezed his leg.

“Hey, no distractions!”

“It’s not my fault if you find that distracting,” John shot back.

“Being molested while driving most definitely …” again, Sherlock stopped talking to take them around the Sachskurve. 

“Sorry,” John said at length and a moment later, Sherlock reached out to squeeze John’s leg. 

The next lap was a silent one, but John was brimming with happiness. It had taken him a while, but now he knew when Sherlock slowed down, when he pulled into a corner and when he accelerated again to fly out of one. In the final lap, John couldn’t quite hold back his words. 

“You’re so good at this. How can you be so bloody good?”

“Practice.”

“No, it’s not that. You have never driven this specific car and yet you drive like you always have.”

“Well, most cars work on the same principles.”

“I know, Sherlock. What I am saying is that you are above that. You are brilliant at this, absolutely brilliant.”

“We’re out of petrol,” Sherlock said, seemingly at a loss at what to answer John and John bit his lip, wanting to see Sherlock’s face. 

They drove back into the pit lane and Sherlock parked the car. When he pulled off his helmet and balaclava, John could see that a blush still graced his cheeks and neck. 

“Umm, John?” Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable and John wondered whether there was yet another part of the surprise that wouldn’t go down quite as well as the first part had. 

“Yes?”

“There are three options for us to go home.”

“Three?” John pulled off his gear and unzipped his suit to cool down a bit. Sherlock's eyes momentarily settled on his chest before he looked at his eyes again.

“Well, the most obvious one is that we get on a plane.”

“What are the other two?”

“We could drive,” he nodded at John’s car. “We’d rest and then pack and then spend the night somewhere in France and take the ferry to Dover in the morning.”

“And the third?”

“Mycroft takes us?”

“Okay, not that.”

“We’d be on a private jet.”

“Oh, I can imagine nothing more life affirming than being trapped in a metal tube for three hours with your brother. He might not survive this.”

“I could tell him to back off.”

“What are the chances that he would?”

“If I tell him that we’re engaged?”

“He might spend the entire flight trying to talk you out of it.”

“True,” Sherlock chewed on his lower lip. 

“How would the car come back if we don’t drive it?”

“The same way it came. In a truck.”

“That your brother ordered. Okay, never mind. Option two it is.”

“You want to drive?”

“If you’re fit to switch with me?”

“In a while, yes.”

“Then we drive,” John smiled. Even though Sherlock did not really show any reaction, John was sure that he had been secretly hoping that John would make that choice.

For a moment, they just sat in silence, but then Sherlock inhaled deeply and turned around to say something. When his eyes met John’s, he visibly stopped himself from speaking and instead leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against his lips.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” John asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were about to.”

“But I didn’t.”

John smiled. “Do I have to be more distracting to make you spill the beans?”

“If you were any more distracting I might spill something very different,” Sherlock remarked drily and opened the door. Only when he tried to climb out he realised that the seat belt held him captive. 

John bit down a laugh but watched Sherlock with a grin when he managed to free himself. 

“So,” John started when they were both back in the trailer. “We need fuel. Possibly new tyres, too. And food. Well, we got the food from the hotel, so that’s taken care of … wait a minute. Did you … did you know I was going to go for that second option when you had them pack up our lunch?”

“I was hopeful,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Right. So that’s sorted for now. We can eat properly at the hotel and then just pack everything and go straight to Woking tomorrow.”

“Mycroft will take care of the rest. It’s part of the deal.”

“So all of this will just disappear again like Cinderella’s pumpkin coach?”

“Umm, I am not sure what you are talking about,” Sherlock said with a frown, eying the trailer with something like mistrust. 

“Never mind,” John smiled. 

“Yesterday, after the party, why did Lestrade laugh at me?”

“Not at you, with you.”

“I don’t recall that I was laughing,” Sherlock said and unzipped his overall. 

“Umm,” John just said as he watched him peel himself out of his suit. Only when Sherlock lifted his leg to pluck his sock off his foot and he groaned in pain did John stop imagining stepping closer and helping Sherlock in the least helpful way, and instead went down on his knees to actually help him. 

“Umm, what you said made it sound like we had make-up sex.”

“Okay?”

“When you said _methods_ it sounded like a euphemism.”

“But he knows that we sleep with each other,” Sherlock wiped his face with a towel before he pulled on a McLaren t-shirt. 

“Well, yes. He does.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock sucked his lower into his mouth and frowned. “I’m not sure I see how that’s funny.”

“And this is exactly why it was,” John smiled sweetly and began undressing in turn. 

“Ah,” Sherlock simply said and then watched him get naked. 

How they managed not to touch each other would always remain a mystery to John, but they both got dressed again without any incident. They packed the suits and gear into John’s car and then Sherlock sent off a text. 

“I’m sure he’s still eating his way through the desert menu at the hotel.”

“Hopefully not.”

They did not find him in the lobby or the restaurant. Instead, when Sherlock unlocked his door, Mycroft was sitting on the solitary chair by the desk, his fingers drumming a rhythm against the manila folder with John’s file. 

“Ah, you’re back,” he said with a false smile and John was ready to turn around on his heels and wait things out downstairs, but Sherlock closed the door behind them. 

“Why are you in my room?”

“They did not allow me to sit downstairs any longer.”

“So you broke into my room.”

“I asked them nicely and had to show them documentation that we are related.”

“Still not legal for them to let you in.”

“I am your emergency contact, Sherlock. It’s in your file.”

Sherlock whipped out his phone and jammed in a text. “Thank you for the reminder to take you off that list.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sherlock. There will always be times when you need me. Like now.”

“I don’t need you. I asked you, because you owed it to John and I wanted to make sure that the car would be here on time. I could have chartered another company.”

“The British government is not a company.”

“Tax payers would like to differ,” Sherlock said with bile in his voice.

“Wait, the British government?”

“I’ll explain later,” Sherlock seemed already bored. 

“All that remains,” he turned back to his brother, “is for the Alpha and the trailer to be returned to England.”

“And you?”

“None of your business.”

Mycroft sighed an overly dramatic sigh. “Little brother, your behaviour is making it my business.”

“We are taking the car up north,” John interrupted Sherlock before he could say something even more offensive. “And we would like to pack now.”

Mycroft stood up and sighed once more, his shoulders heaving and falling with it. “Don’t come asking for any more favours.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Sherlock’s brother pursed his lip and then stalked to the door. “Good bye, brother mine. Good bye, Doctor Watson.” He left the door open when he walked out and John sat down on the bed. 

“How the hell does he know about the …”

“Must have seen the helmet. Don’t worry, he cannot read minds.”

“If he had the same abilities that you have, then mind reading is not quite as far-fetched after all.”

“I cannot read minds. If I could I would have figured you out on the first day.”

“You didn’t?”

“John. You’re an enigma. I don’t understand half of what you say and why you do the things you do.”

“Is that bad?”

“No!” Sherlock smiled. “Quite the opposite.”


	100. Chapter One Hundred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 100 *laughs manically* I cannot believe I wrote that many chapters, but damn, I did.  
> 

“So, what is going to happen with all of that?”

“Mycroft will take it. He has more room in the lorry now that we are taking the car.”

“Didn’t he just tell you to not ask any more favours?”

“Well, the return home was part of the deal.”

John nodded. “Alright. Now, you mentioned rest?”

“Just a nap and then we can go.”

“Alright,” John pulled off his shoes and climbed into the bed. “Though, you using the word _nap_ is a little disconcerting.”

“Undress!”

“A nap, Sherlock. Not sex.”

“I wasn’t thinking of sex. I just want to feel you.”

“Fine, feel me,” John grinned and waggled an eyebrows before he pulled off his shirt. “That’s all you are going to get.”

Sherlock closed the door and undressed entirely, ignoring John’s eyes on him as he lay down next to him. “Set the alarm?”

“To what?” 

“4 pm?”

“Alright,” John placed his phone on the night stand and then lay down again. “Now I feel overdressed.”

“I asked you to get naked.”

“But if I do, I’ll want to touch you.”

“I don’t have a lot of experience, John, but I do know for a fact that it doesn’t work like that.” 

“Well, from my experience I can tell you that for me it is true. I mean, I want to touch you anyway, but that need increases exponentially when we are both naked.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine, touch me if you must. I’ll be sleeping.”

John chuckled and tucked his head between Sherlock’s shoulder and chin and wrapped one arm around him. Sherlock moved to kiss his forehead before placed his own arm over John’s protectively. 

“You did it,” he whispered again and John smiled to himself. 

“Thank you.”

“You are fearless, John.”

John chuckled. “I am the opposite.”

“No, you think you are, but you are definitely not.”

“I won’t argue about that with you.”

“You don’t have to, because I am right.”

John grunted his disapproval but then he closed his eyes, his lips against Sherlock’s neck, and soon he drifted off. 

The alarm seemed too loud when John woke up, indicating that it had been ringing for a few seconds already and he rolled over to switch it off. Then he turned around again and wrapped himself around Sherlock. 

“John?” he asked tiredly. “John, are you awake?”

“No.”

“Me neither. But we have to go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on.”

“You’re not moving.”

“Come on, we’re going home.”

John sighed deeply opened his eyes again. “I am going to need so much coffee.”

“I understand,” Sherlock nodded and yawned. 

“Don’t do that,” John joined him with a jaw cracking yawn. 

Sherlock chuckled and turned so he could pull John into his arms. For a long moment, they just held each other, both exhausted and giddy. 

“Okay,” John finally said and pulled back and to his disappointment, Sherlock let him. “We can make it to Brussels by midnight and then we find a hotel and continue tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Sherlock nodded and moved off the bed. He disappeared in the bathroom, but he did not shower and instead washed his face and then returned with his belongings which he threw into his bag. With another yawn he stepped into his jeans again and pulled on John’s shirt. Within a few minutes he had packed everything he had brought as well as John’s file and the trophy.

Together they brought their bags downstairs. It took them three trips down and back up to pack everything, including the McLaren box and their lunch before Sherlock left his key card with the hotel, assuring them that the strange man who had spent all midday sitting in their restaurant would come and pick up the rest of his things and to charge them for another night if they needed to. Before they were allowed to go, Sherlock was asked to sign a few things and the lady at the front desk smiled widely as she wished them a safe trip home. 

By 5 o’clock, they were on their way, Sherlock holding John’s coffee and his own, still yawning occasionally. Despite the general exhaustion, John felt excited to be in the car again. At the nearest petrol station, he noticed several people looking at the car and he smiled when he sat down in the driver’s seat again, having checked on the tyres and decided that they were still in good enough shape to take them home.

“You were right. People do notice the car.”

Sherlock just smiled and handed John his coffee. 

John drove calmly, one hand on the steering wheel and, after he had finished his coffee, the other on Sherlock’s leg when he did not need to shift gears. John had insisted on placing the trophy on the back seat and Sherlock had carefully tucked it in place and secured it with the seat belt. Every now and again, John looked at it through the mirror, slowly letting the knowledge sink in that they truly had managed to achieve something revolutionary. It wasn’t just that their lives had changed profoundly, but no team had ever brought in a rookie and won twice in a row. 

“Sherlock?” he started and turned his face towards him only to find that he had been watched. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flicking away from his face as if to pretend that he had just been scanning the car, but the rest of his body remained positioned towards him, so there could be no doubt about it. 

John smiled and turned towards the road again, feeling strangely embarrassed by Sherlock’s embarrassment. “I think you might have written history yesterday. A new record that I doubt anyone will ever break.”

“You were right, though. It wasn’t as easy as the first time.”

“Are you still sore?”

“Obviously.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“No, still, I’m sorry.”

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Mycroft did not say anything.”

John sighed at the mention of Sherlock’s brother, not wanting to think about him. Ever. 

“About what?”

“Us. You and me.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Us.”

John glanced at Sherlock at his awkward wording.

“You mean because of the sex?”

“Well …”

“Is he like you?”

“What?”

“Well, alone?” John tried carefully, wincing at how dire it sounded, but Sherlock shrugged. 

“Must be. Comes with the job and his personality isn’t exactly a redeeming feature endearing him to his esteemed colleagues.”

John grinned, relieved that Sherlock had not run out of colourful words. 

“So he doesn’t have anyone?”

“John! Please, I don’t want to think about that!”

“I’m just thinking. Most of the things I have heard about him, and, well, seen for myself, speak against him. But Lestrade puts up with him.”

“Lestrade also puts up with me. I’m not sure whether that makes him extraordinary or extraordinarily stupid.”

“Well …” John stared ahead and tellingly did not finish his thought. It took a moment before Sherlock noticed John’s sudden silence. 

“No, oh, John, no, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“What do you mean, then?” John asked, understanding once more that Sherlock occasionally missed the glaring sign that wrote sarcasm. 

“Well, I mean, I don’t sleep with Lestrade.”

“I put up with you before we were sleeping together.”

Sherlock looked away from John. “I think they get along because they are both worried about me. For different reasons and to a different extent, but I suspect it must be that.”

“That is kind of sad,” John frowned. “I mean …” He felt that he had just manoeuvred himself into a similar position Sherlock had a moment ago, but Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed. 

“That’s why I would like to tell him.”

“Tell whom what?”

“Mycroft. That we are engaged.”

“We don’t have rings yet,” John reminded him and Sherlock undid his seat belt and half wormed his way between the car seats to fish something from the back of the car. 

“God, Sherlock, you’re going to get us killed,” John chuckled and slapped his arse playfully.

Sherlock returned his whole body to the front seat again a moment later, holding the watch in his hands. 

“John?” 

“Yes?”

“You … you just … you are not afraid anymore,” Sherlock said, exhaling loudly. “You just … you just …”

“Are you alright?” John asked, as Sherlock being lost for words and repeating himself several times was about as disconcerting as it could get.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured and put on his seat belt again. “It’s just …”

“What?”

“You behaved like any relatively tolerant driver would react if they … liked the person who might do what I just did.”

“We’re not five, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“You can use the word _love_ , you know? And are you talking about me slapping you?”

“No. Yes. Well, in a way.”

Sherlock had blushed again and John smiled. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t help myself.”

Sherlock looked away for a moment before he took John’s hand from where it had resettled on his leg and fastened the watch next to John's own. “No rings, but almost,” he concluded and John raised his arm to ruffle his hair. “I love you.”

“What I meant,” Sherlock tried again, “is that you were neither afraid nor upset that I reached for the watch.”

John thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. I didn’t … think …” 

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Thank you for getting me to race you,” John said, looking down on the watch with a half smile. “I don’t know what my subconscious might come up with tonight, but I am glad that I tried.”

“I am glad, too, because it proves that I was right.”

“How so?”

“I knew you were an extraordinary driver. You have a very different style from me, but you drove incredibly well.”

“Thank you,” John shot him a smile.

“And, well, what’s more important is that you did it at all.”

“I suppose it is,” John agreed, but then he took Sherlock’s right hand and squeezed it gently. “Can we talk about this when I am not driving the same car up a motorway?”

“Autobahn, technically,” Sherlock smirked, but he nodded. 

“Umm, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why does Donovan speak such good German?”

“She speaks several languages fluently.”

“Just like you.”

“Well, yes.”

“Were you friends when you were little?”

“I was never little,” Sherlock said with something resembling disgust and John giggled.

“Oh, you were. Positively tiny, I imagine. Judging from the photos you were all hair and mouth and stockings.” John chanced a glance at Sherlock, half expecting him to be angry, but he was met with a baffled expression. 

“Anyway,” he added when Sherlock just kept looking at him like that. “Did you know her then?”

“When Victor stayed with us, she would sometimes join us. She never raced, but she’d record race reports which she would play back to us. I think she really wanted to be a commentator, but as a woman …” Sherlock shrugged. “She learned German to highten her chances. French, too. Victor helped her.”

“Do you think she’s happy?”

“What?”

“Doing what she does now.”

“I don’t know. It hasn’t really occurred to me to ask her until now.”

“For obvious reasons. But still, I wonder if she has regrets of her own.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, the way she was around you. It seems like it was about Victor, mostly, but there seemed to be more. Something like jealousy. Like you two were friends before and something happened.”

“We were never friends.”

“But she must have respected you. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been that angry with you.”

Sherlock frowned and looked away from John. After a long moment he sighed. “I don’t know.”

“She’s really good at her job, though,” John added to his thought. “Maybe she’s okay not being a commentator.”

“She would be very good, I suppose.”

“I don’t know if Lestrade could do without her.”

Sherlock smiled. “Or without you.”

“Oh, piss off. Lestrade could very well do without me.”

Sherlock shook his head and continued smiling. 

“What. Has he said something?”

“No,” Sherlock’s smile turned into a grin. “But you keep me in check, so on top of your recent success in the garage, you have proven yourself to be quite indispensible.”

“I don’t keep you in check.”

“Well, they believe you do.”

“And you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“We’re not talking about what happens behind closed doors.”

“Well,” Sherlock sucked his lower lip into his mouth and chewed distractedly. “Maybe you do outside of them, too.”

“I do?”

“I know what people said about me when you first met me.”

“None of them were right about you.”

“But they were.”

“No!”

“I was all of the things they said I was.”

“But you were in pain and your brother paid for the damages and you did not cause the accident at the test track.”

Sherlock looked at John like he was amazed and touched by his willful ignorance and John felt irritated by it. “I never talked to anyone. I never listened. I purposefully made mistakes and embarrassed them in front of sponsors and the FIA. I know Stamford warned you.”

“Yes he did.”

“He was right about what he said when we first met.”

“But you were paid to do what you did.”

“But there would have been many ways of doing better.”

“I don’t care, Sherlock. I don’t care what you did.”

“Lestrade used to drive another car to work.”

John frowned at Sherlock. “What did you do?”

“You just said you don’t care,” Sherlock tried but John shook his head.

“Don’t get smart with me. What did you do?”

“I was angry with him and totalled his Porsche.”

“He drove a Porsche to work?”

“Pretentious, right?” 

John was about to agree when he remembered that he was supposed to be appalled and that he drove his very own pretentious car to work. “And he didn’t kill you?”

“Mycroft paid for the repairs, but he decided to take the family car instead after the incident.”

“And he didn’t kill you?” John repeated, staring at Sherlock. 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Frankly, I don’t know. I was terrible about it, too, blaming him for not making sure that I didn’t have access.”

John laughed out loud. “I’m starting to see what you mean.”

“You never saw me like I used to be.”

“Why is that?”

“I don‘t know. Well, I mean, you were different from anyone else I had ever met.”

“Were you afraid that I would dislike you?” John asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Not so much that as walk away. All I knew for certain was that I did _not_ want you to walk away.”

“So _you_ did it instead.”

“Well, when I had time to think, I thought …”

“That you’d be the one to do it instead of me? Make sure that I couldn’t hurt you?”

“Turned out not to work out at all.”

“Why?”

“Because I was scared that I had annoyed you and that I was complicating your life because of Sally and the others and when I was home I was so afraid that you would end it.”

“End it?”

“The collaboration.”

“So you broke into my office to make sure that I would know that you were still interested in working with me?”

“Or to be close to you before I wasn’t allowed anymore.”

“What?” John had to force himself to look at the road but he took the next exit a few hundred yards later and parked the car. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock had blushed again and was looking at his hands. 

“Sherlock. Look at me.” John unbuckled his seat belt and gently turned Sherlock’s face towards him. “When I saw you on my couch I was _so glad_ you had come back. I was upset that you had left, but I wasn’t upset about that. I was upset because you had disappeared. You. I wanted to have you around and I was mostly upset that you had denied me the chance to drive you home that night and to find you asleep in my office was …” he exhaled, knowing that he had blushed, too. “I knew I had made the right choice then.”

“Professionally,” Sherlock added quietly and John laughed out loud. “Yes, professionally, and personally. And I knew that what I felt then would make it very easy for you to hurt me.”

Sherlock frowned, understanding slowly sinking in. “I didn’t, did I?”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss him. “No, you didn’t. Not in a way that mattered. Not until Scotland, anyway.”

Sherlock growled and pulled away. “I did apologise.”

John chuckled. “Just joking. Still. Don’t ever...”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“If it felt like what it felt when you slept on my sofa then I think I know what you mean,” Sherlock said after a moment of awkward silence.

“I don’t know what that felt like to you but I know that after I accidentally ran into you on the way to the bathroom that I wanted to see you like this every day.”

“Tired?”

John smiled. “Well, newly awake.”

“Did you know, then?”

“That I wanted you?”

“Hmm.”

“I think I did. I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, but yes, I did want you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, sounding almost too formal, but John had to smile.

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Want me?”

“I wanted you to stay, yes. I wanted you to come back to stay on my sofa again. I did imagine afterwards what would have happened if you had walked in on me that morning.”

“What?” John stared at him.

“Well,” Sherlock’s ears were properly red now and John stared at him open mouthed, imagining himself walking in on Sherlock wanking in the shower that morning. “I’m glad you didn’t,” Sherlock was quick to add. “Because that would have been the end of our professional relationship.”

“I don’t think it would have,” John shook his head. “It really, really wouldn’t have been the end.”

“I would have disappeared.”

“Do you think I would have let you?”

Sherlock rubbed his face. “I don’t know.”

John shook his head. “I would have found you. God, to know you were touching yourself because of me three days after meeting me for the first time would have definitely inspired me to at least hang out in front of your house and see if you’d show up. I mean, that was before I thought that my feelings for you would complicate everything. I just knew I wanted you around, I just wasn’t … conscious of it then.”

“Well, how would you have known it was you I was thinking of?”

John pouted. “True.”

“See? It would have been disastrous.”

“I would have allowed myself to think about you that way earlier, I guess.”

“I don’t understand how you could have that much self control.”

“Feeling incredibly sorry for yourself for months on end kind of kills your motivation to touch yourself.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Not for me.”

John was incredibly glad now that he had stopped the car. “But you said that you didn’t have any experience.”

“With other people, yes.”

“But you did touch yourself, thinking of me?”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. “I never considered that you would.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I hoped, certainly, but I knew what good hoping might do.”

“But you almost got naked in front of me just hours after I first met you.”

“You keep coming back to that.”

“Because it left a rather significant impression.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing. I still don’t know,” he admitted grudgingly. “Half the time I’m just hoping to get it right.”

“Quite different from racing, huh?” John grinned. 

“Very.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do we have filthy sex in the filthy bathroom over there or do we drive on?”

Sherlock looked out of the window and then leaned over to kiss John. “Drive on. We can have filthy sex once we’re in Belgium.”

John chuckled. “Alright.”

Sherlock looked away but John could see that he was smiling. It felt good to talk about it when the car worked as a safe space to voice what they wouldn’t otherwise. John couldn’t remember a time in his life in which he had been this open about his feelings with anyone. But if the time was right and they were truly alone he found that it was quite easy and strangely rewarding to speak about things he usually buried deep down inside of him. 

“Can we drive by Harry’s place before we go to work tomorrow?”

“Certainly.”

“I want to get that photo album.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us? Maybe mention the engagement. Make sure she knows you’ve made your choice?”

John carefully took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Maybe I could do that.”

Sherlock smiled and made himself more comfortable, finally fiddling with the radio until he found a station he liked. 

With music floating between them, they drove in silence, passing Bonn and Cologne and finally hitting the border behind Aachen. After they had cut through the slice of the Netherlands, not without stopping for Stroopwafles and coffee, they decided to switch seats. 

Sherlock stretched a bit before getting behind the wheel, but John opened the driver’s door again and leaned down to kiss him. “Half way to Brussels.”

“Depending on how long you plan on kissing me,” Sherlock commented with a smirk, causing John to kiss him again, but with more hair tugging and definitely more teeth. 

“Well,” Sherlock inhaled deeply when John pulled back, “it will seem endless now.”

John chuckled and sat down next to him, wondering if Sherlock would be opposed to a quick blowjob in the countryside. 

“At the hotel, not before,” Sherlock remarked drily as he started the car. “And please put your seat belt on.”

“Why not now?”

“Because if we start we are not going to stop.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“But how?”

“John, remember that rule we had on the way to Scotland?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Do you really want to wait until we are at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re wearing jeans and you definitely want me to touch you.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “Don’t!” 

“I’m just saying. You’re not wearing underwear and you are most definitely taking up a lot of room in those jeans.”

“Three hours, John. Maybe four.”

“It’ll be dark by then and we’ll be tired.”

“Yes, but at least we’ll be close to Calais and have an actual bed to sleep in.”

“We could look for a hotel now.”

“No.”

John sighed. “Fine. Be like that.”

Sherlock chuckled. “You’re quite desperate, aren’t you?”

“I am no such thing.”

Sherlock’s smirk just added to John’s frustration. 

For a while they didn’t speak, but eventually John tried again. “We don’t need a hotel room. We just need a quiet parking space and we’ll be fine.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I know that as soon as your mouth goes anywhere south of my mouth, I won’t drive another mile today.”

John swallowed hard, sorely tempted to just go ahead and fuck Sherlock right there in the car like he had imagined when they had shared their fantasies about the car, but then he remembered that Sherlock had been exhausted and sore and that gymnastics in a car seat would probably be a lot less exciting than he imagined. A bed would, indeed, be preferable. 

“Fine.”

“You can find us a hotel close to Calais if you want to, so that we’ll have a definite goal.”

“My definite goal is to take those jeans off of you,” John murmured and rearranged himself in his trousers.

Sherlock chuckled and squeezed himself. 

“Fuck you,” John said very quietly, but Sherlock had clearly still heard him.

“Later, love, later.”

John had wanted to say something back, but the endearment silenced him and for a few minutes he was very busy pretending that it didn’t make his heart ache with joy. He knew that Sherlock was mocking him, but he had never expected to hear such an endearment from him under any circumstance. 

To take his mind off Sherlock’s state of arousal, and his own, he turned up the volume of the radio and closed his eyes against the noise and the temptation to look at Sherlock in inappropriate ways. 

At some point he must have drifted off despite the loud music, because when he opened his eyes next the sun had just set to his left and Sherlock pulled into a parking lot. 

“Where are we?” He asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

“We’re in Calais. You just … disappeared.”

“What?” John sat up straight and rubbed his face. “You drove all the way to Calais?”

“You were still fast asleep when we passed by Brussels, so I figured I’d just drive on.”

“But I thought …”

“You slept, I drove. I thought it might be safer than to wake you up and ask.”

“I wouldn’t have attacked you, you know?” John pouted and Sherlock grinned.

“I might have, though.”


	101. Chapter One Hundred and One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is with a heavy heart that I type these words. This is the end of the journey of this version of Sherlock and John. I started writing this story about two and a half years ago, which seems crazy when I think about it. The very initial idea was triggered by a random advertisement that featured Kimi Raikkönen and as I drove past it the idea popped into my mind. When mentioning it, Rox712 showed herself to be very enthusiastic about the idea and kept feeding the plot bunny and I ended up writing about 320000 words of this. But I would have never gotten there had I not received super lovely and supportive feedback from you right from the first chapter on. It was because of the comments that I did not wrap this story up after 30 chapters, but that I felt the need to extend this and tell more of the story. But eventuelly I had to finish it and while I would happily write hundreds of chapters about their future from this point on, I think I've told the story I wanted to tell and this is where it took me, and the boys.  
> So thank you from the bottom of my heart for your enthusiasm. 
> 
> This story helped me through some of the hardest time I've had in my life and it kept me sane when work and life tried to push me under. It was necessariy to write this both for my own sanity's sake and for joy. I know motorsports is not everyone's cup of tea, but I am so grateful and happy that some of you told me you became interested in F1 because of this story. F1 was my first proper hobby/fandom when I was a kid. and as I grew up and more distant from it and developed a rather critical opion of the sport, I found myself watching Sunday's race with the biggest smile on my face, because Jenson Button drove an absolutely superb race after a rubbish start and after announcing that he won't drive next season while remaining the most polite, funny and optimistic person, he reminded me why I love F1 so much and that now is a perfect moment to end this. And guess what. Stoffel Vandoorne is going to be Jenson's successor while Jenson will serve as the reserve and test driver for McLaren. 
> 
> So this, all of this, is an experience I will never forget and I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to write and share this with you. As I said, I'll go over this again and edit out the typos and inconsistencies and possibly rewrite a few sentences of this story in order to make a pdf or epub version of it. And after this I will return to the series I started writing after season 1 aired (The Eye of the Beholder) that is still in need of a proper wrap up, too :)
> 
> But, to finish my ramblings, just one last thing: THANK YOU!

John shook his head, unbuckled his seat belt and was about to snog Sherlock for the foreseeable future when Sherlock held him back, one hand flat against his chest, shaking his head with a half smile. “No.”

“Oh my god.” John let himself fall back in his seat, unsure whether he should be offended or glad that Sherlock was still thinking straight. 

“We’ll go in and see if they have a room for us, get our bags, ensure the car is locked and safe and only then, once we have made sure that everything is in order, you are free to do with me whatever you like. But first, we need a room.”

John eyed the hotel suspiciously but pressed his own hand against Sherlock's to keep it where it was. “It should be just one of us to get the room.”

“Why?”

“Because we shouldn’t make it obvious that we want a double room.”

“We could get two rooms.”

“Waste of money.”

“Might be worth it?”

“Nah, let me do this and I’ll make sure that nobody will ask questions.”

“Fine. Just know that you have quite a large … mark on your neck that could be misinterpreted as a love bite and that you look like you …”

“Shut up,” John chuckled and squeezed his hand before he got out of the car. It was only when he stood at the front desk that he remembered that he did not speak more than a few phrases of French. His realisation must have shown on his face as the lady at the front desk cocked her head to one side and then tried German. John shook his head, feeling strangely deficient, before he thanked her in German, then in French and finally told her that he was English. 

The lady smiled. “How can I help you then?”

“You speak English, that’s already such a relief.”

“You’re welcome, I guess. You still might want to eat at the restaurant or possibly book a room?”

“Oh, god, yes, sorry,” John blushed and nervously scratched his neck, realising too late that he was drawing attention to his love bite by doing it. “Do you still have a room for me and a mate? We’re travelling back to England and since we want to catch the ferry tomorrow morning we thought it would be brilliant if we could spend the night so close to the harbour.”

“Absolutely. Double room with two beds, then?”

John nodded. “Any bed will do.”

“A single then?” 

John stared at her, watching her bite back laughter. 

“Oh,” he chuckled, wanting nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up. “I’m sorry, I’m just really tired.”

“Apologies. Let me make it up to you and upgrade you to room 512. This includes breakfast and free access to the mini bar. Checkout is until 11 am, but I gather you will be leaving us earlier. Breakfast starts at 6.”

“Thank you,” John nodded and handed over his card. 

“Room service is 24/7, there is also free wifi and if you need anything else, do not hesitate to call the front desk.” She handed him a document which held all of the information she had just given him and more. He received a key card and a smile and he hoped dearly that his blush had disappeared again. 

“I’ll go and get my mate and then we’ll be out of your hair.” He cringed inwardly at his wording.

“It’s my job to welcome guests, you know?”

John bit his lip. “Do you always do it like that?”

“You mean do I always flirt with customers?”

“Well?”

“Only when my colleague isn’t here. And when I feel like it. And you seemed very easy to flirt at, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Your English is very good.”

“Too late for compliments, John Watson.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I can read, you know? It’s on your card.”

John rubbed his face. “Umm, I should go.”

“Enjoy your stay, John Watson,” she smiled brightly and John knew that his hope of returning to Sherlock without a blush was in vain.

“What happened?” he immediately asked when John walked out.

“Nothing.”

“Did you get a room?”

“Yes, and I made a fool of myself, but at least that got us an upgrade.”

“What did you do?"

"I just failed to flirt with a woman who is very good at flirting.”

“What?” Sherlock was about to walk into the hotel and give the woman a piece of his mind when John held him back. 

“Let’s just get our things, come on.”

Sherlock took his bag and locked the door, handing John his. “The trophy and your file are in my bag.” John smiled at Sherlock’s priorities.

“Alright, so let’s go. It’s room 512.”

Sherlock walked in front of John, effectively shielding him from the woman at the front desk, almost glaring at her smile. Only when they had walked past her did John realise that hiding behind Sherlock could only make it worse. So before they could get on the elevator, John stopped and walked back a few paces. 

“It’s a little unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he started as his eyes fell on the name tag she wore on her blouse, “Josephine.”

This time she actually laughed and shook her head. “Good night, Mr Watson.”

John grinned and waved at her, immediately regretting it when he saw Sherlock’s amused expression.

“You were awful,” he said loudly and John could hear more laughter from around the corner. Instead of an answer he pushed Sherlock into the elevator and punched the number 5 button harder than necessary. 

“Don’t say anything.” John looked at Sherlock through the mirror, finding him grinning widely. 

“That was impressively bad. Thank god you never tried to chat me up.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that. 

“I just didn’t expect her to do that.” The doors opened and they heaved their bags out of the elevator.

“John, you flirt with everyone and everything at all times.”

“I was still thinking about you and I just wanted a room.”

“And you succeeded. But you also… well.”

“Shut up.” John fumbled for the key card and walked quickly along the corridor, finding their room at the end. 

Once the door opened, John forgot his embarrassment. The room was much larger than John had expected, holding two king size beds, a large table with a sofa and two chairs, a marine colour scheme giving the impression that they were on a boat. The bathroom was mostly glass and mirrors and the entire wall on the far end of the bedroom was glass, including a door that led out onto a balcony. Sherlock carefully closed the door before he strode through the room, dropped his bag on the carpet and walked back to John. John stopped him before he could do anything and shook his head. “I need to piss,” he announced unceremoniously and left Sherlock standing in the middle of the small hallway in favour of the bathroom. 

John took his time in the bathroom, washing his hands, rubbing his face to feel more awake before he walked out again. Sherlock, who had remained right where John had left him, shrugged and disappeared in the bathroom for a couple of minutes and John used the time to look around the room and snack on the food they had still left over from their lunch. 

Once Sherlock returned from the bathroom, he jumped into action and immediately walked up to John and started kissing him, tugging at his clothes, growling when John stopped him.

“What?”

John looked at him closely. “I asked you not to do this kind of thing without asking me first.”

“What?” Sherlock was clearly confused.

“You called ahead and made them give us this room, didn’t you? And you told her to flirt with me.”

“John,” Sherlock took his face between his hands and shook his head. “It does sound like something I would do, but I didn’t. I didn’t call ahead, I didn’t ask her to flirt with you so I would have an excuse to be a little rough with you, and I most certainly did not ask anyone to upgrade our room.”

John bit his lip when Sherlock so clearly stated his intentions, but he caught himself again, wanting to make sure that everything was as it should be. “Mycroft?”

“John!”

“Well, sorry, but recent events just …”

“Do you think he would do that? Pay a woman to flirt with you?”

“No.” John shook his head. “You would, but he wouldn’t.”

“Could be a ploy to test you.” Sherlock waggled his right eye-brow and John huffed. 

“There are hundreds of gorgeous women around during race weekends.”

“What are you saying?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John began getting nervous under his stare. Just when he wanted to defend himself, Sherlock chuckled and kissed him again. 

“Can we please stop being paranoid and just enjoy the fact that your awkwardness got us this room?”

“Fine, yes,” John sighed but then pushed forward, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and driving him backwards until he was pressed up against the wall. 

“Oh no,” Sherlock growled and pushed hard, reversing their positions and pressing his right leg between John’s, pinning him in place.

“Jesus Christ,” John gasped, his hands flying to Sherlock’s arse, squeezing hard. 

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed, kissing him thoroughly while tugging at his shirt. 

“Fuck, let me,” John pushed Sherlock’s hands away and pulled his shirt over his head, immediately continuing to undo his flies. “Let me!” he said again, more aggressively now, when Sherlock still had him pinned to the wall. Reluctantly, Sherlock stepped back and waited until John had pulled down his jeans and underwear. Only in socks and with an impressive erection, John stared at Sherlock, who was still entirely dressed. 

“Why are you not naked?”

“Because you haven’t undressed me yet.”

John shook his head and stepped forward, plucking his own shirt from Sherlock’s torso before attaching his mouth to his left nipple, sucking hard. 

Sherlock grunted in pain and half heartedly tried to push John away, but John undid Sherlock’s jeans and pushed them to his knees, moving his lips lower before it became too uncomfortable and he dropped to his knees, using one hand to steady Sherlock by holding on to his leg and using the other to roughly stroke him while sucking his head into his mouth.

Sherlock’s legs buckled and John had to force himself to stay calm. It would have been easy to just get him off like this, but it wasn’t what he wanted. 

Eventually he pulled back and looked up at Sherlock, who looked down on him with hooded eyes. They were both breathing heavily. 

“Shower?” John asked and Sherlock shrugged. 

“What about your exercises?”

“I exercised enough for a day,” John argued but Sherlock took a step backwards, almost falling as his jeans still entrapped his ankles. 

“You sat in a car for most of the day.”

“Please be aware that you are saying this while I am holding your cock in my hand,” John pointed out and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Well, yes, I am quite aware, thank you.”

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Bed,” Sherlock suggested and John secretly agreed with him. “And after we’ve taken care of more urgent business, you can do your exercises.”

“That is the least romantic thing I can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine quite a number of far less romantic things to do after sex.”

“Still. What about a break?”

“You had a break yesterday. And I do want you to be fit.”

“Do you?” John asked breathlessly, standing up to be able to kiss him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded and kicked off his jeans before he picked John up and carried him to one of the beds almost effortlessly. “I do.”

John laughed when Sherlock dropped him and immediately climbed onto the bed and on top of him. 

“Forgive me, but I really need to make you come,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, before he spit into his hand and began stroking John. He had forgotten how desperate he had been to feel Sherlock’s hand on him and he was reminded that, pressed into a mattress of a random hotel bed, any bed in which Sherlock Holmes was touching him felt a bit like home. He arched up against him and was ready to surrender entirely. 

Sherlock must have noticed, because he slowed down, became gentler and kissed John until his gasps grew too frequent and he opted for simply watching him. 

It took him only a few minutes to make John come and he continued touching him gently long after John had calmed down again.

“What about you?” John asked finally, secretly hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t stop stroking his thumb across his hip. 

Sherlock smiled and kissed him. “I’m quite enjoying this.”

“Last time you enjoyed not doing anything about it you didn’t sleep at all.”

“I’m not testing this time. Just enjoying. You know, delayed gratification?”

“What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I met you the concept of delayed gratification did not exist for you.”

Sherlock sniffed and raised his chin in defiance. “I learned. I had a very good teacher.”

John smiled widely. “You’re a good student.” He kissed him carefully, slowly. “So, about that shower?”

Sherlock huffed. “Before we shower you do your exercises.”

John rolled his eyes and then wiped at his stomach. “Let me at least wash up a bit first?”

“I’m sure Aki will appreciate your report tomorrow.”

“Well, you’re the one that’s sore.”

“My reason is not in the least connected to sex, though.”

John giggled. “Well, he doesn’t know that.” 

“John, please.”

“Fine. So you want to wait until after I have done my exercises?”

“I just want to go to sleep after, that is all.”

John nodded and kissed him. “Fine, you unpack and find the lube and I’ll do my bit.” He wasn’t sure whether Sherlock really meant it, but when he got up to clean himself a little and to find shorts, Sherlock began unpacking a few basics while finishing the rest of the food. 

He pointedly placed the pack of condoms on the bed when John began warming up and half way into his exercises he caught Sherlock lazily stroking himself. 

“Oh, go and take a shower first, if you really can’t wait.”

“I’m rather enjoying the view,” Sherlock defended himself, but he did get up when John grew more and more distracted by his actions. 

John tried to hurry up, but he was exhausted and the thought that Sherlock wanted to be made love to was just as distracting as having him watch him work out. 

He finally gave up, feeling that he had done the bare minimum and promising himself that he would instead repeat the exercises in the morning. 

Sherlock stood in front of the full body mirror and was shaving. He smiled when he saw John walk in behind him and let himself be kissed. John chuckled and wiped shaving cream from his lips before he stepped into the shower. He turned on the water and simply let it embrace him for a long moment. It was cooler here than it had been in Germany and John enjoyed the heat of the water against his skin.

Finally, he wiped the water out of his eyes and reached for the soap, finding Sherlock watching him calmly through the glass wall of the shower. Once more, John could see him fight the urge to look away only to come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t need to apologise for doing it, so instead of blushing, he smiled this time. 

“Don’t be too long?” he asked before he walked into the bedroom, leaving John alone. Despite Sherlock’s words, John took his time to wash, letting the events of the day rush past him. He guessed that his sudden and deep sleep was connected to his mind’s refusal to think about what he had done, but now that he took the time to think about it, he felt nothing but pride. 

Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get out of the shower and tell Sherlock. He quickly washed the soap from his body and out of his hair and roughly towelled himself dry while brushing his teeth, just in case. When he walked into the bedroom he found the curtains drawn closed and Sherlock naked on the bed with two fingers buried deep inside of himself.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” John needed a second to recover from that unexpected view. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you…” He could feel his cock respond quite enthusiastically to the image Sherlock presented him with. 

“I figured it would be quicker that way,” Sherlock said quietly, blushing lightly under John’s stare. Sherlock had lost his erection in the bathroom and now John could watch him grow hard again. He licked his lips. 

“Continue,” he said breathlessly and began stoking himself into full hardness, amazed once more by his own stamina, watching Sherlock closely while fiddling with the box of condoms, finally extracting one. He still kept his eyes on Sherlock’s hand even when he opened the packet with his teeth and rolled the condom on. 

“Jesus,” he said again and quickly returned to the bathroom to grab a towel before he plucked the lube off the bed and dribbled more onto Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock hissed as he began moving his fingers in and out of himself. 

And John watched on helplessly. All he would need to do to take control was to push Sherlock’s hand away, but he was transfixed, one hand on his own cock, slicking himself up while the other rested against Sherlock’s thigh. 

“Nobody would ever believe me,” he swallowed hard, wondering if he would be okay just watching Sherlock get off like that. 

“You said that before.”

“And I haven’t told anyone for exactly that reason.”

Sherlock grinned and John could tell he was proud of himself. 

“Fuck, please tell me that you are ready.”

“Go find out” Sherlock pulled his fingers out and wiped them on the towel. John felt his heart in his throat when he coated his fingers with lube and carefully pushed in, feeling Sherlock clench around him, but not in shock or in surprise. He arched his back, biting his lip. 

“Fuck,” John whispered again, pulling his fingers out and climbing onto the bed properly to kiss Sherlock. 

“I want you on top of me,” he decided when Sherlock took hold of his hand and brought it to his cock. 

“So I have to do all the work?”

John chuckled. “Well, I thought you might enjoy it.”

Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position and kissed him. “One doesn’t cancel out the other, does it?”

“I don’t think it does,” John agreed and flopped down, making Sherlock giggle. “I’m all yours.”

Sherlock’s face softened at that and for a moment he simply lay on top of him, kissing him. Their cocks rubbed together deliciously and John felt his focus slip as he gave into the sensation of Sherlock’s body against his and his tongue in his mouth. He felt entirely relaxed when Sherlock finally sat up and slowly guided John’s cock inside of him. It took a while and Sherlock pulled up a few times to try again, two fingers having not quite sufficed to stretch him open, but John noted that it was getting easier. Sherlock had figured out how he could coax his body to open up for him and John was entirely thankful that Sherlock liked being made love to like this. 

He knew that he would have been happy to go his entire life without penetrative sex if Sherlock had disliked it, but this, this was simply brilliant. 

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss him again but then he pushed himself up, his hands against John’s chest, and began to move. 

John had to calm himself down, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by it all. This gorgeous man, whose body had excited John from the fist moment, was using him for his own pleasure, while his eyes, so sharp and focused at their first encounter, were soft and clearly spelled out his arousal and affection. His lips opened lightly to let out soft moans and John mirrored them, breath by breath, feeling his climax coming on much too soon.

“Stop, Sherlock, stop, please!” He tried to stay his hips but Sherlock was quite happily riding him to the edge of his orgasm. 

“Sherlock, I’ll come. Please stop.”

Finally Sherlock seemed to realise that John was serious and he stopped moving, panting quietly as he watched him with wide eyes. 

And John tried his hardest not to come anyway, closing his eyes against reality only to find that his mind’s eye offered him more of the same. “Jesus. Fuck!”

“John, you’re a bit sweary today,” Sherlock noted with breathless laughter. 

“Tell me something completely unromantic.”

“Lobsters are immortal?” Sherlock tried and John opened his eyes to stare at him, dumbfounded. 

“Umm.”

“It was the first thing that came to my mind.”

“The first thing you think of when I ask for something unromantic is the immortality of lobsters?!

“Lobster was on the menu downstairs and I just thought that it’s quite strange of us to eat them, because they are potentially older than we are.”

“Oh my god,” John laughed. “Something else, maybe?”

Sherlock stared at him, crinkling his nose. “No. can’t think of anything else.”

John inhaled deeply and then took hold of Sherlock’s cock. “This will have to distract me for a while.”

Sherlock moaned softly and John had to smile, knowing that it would do quite the opposite, but at least he would be able to get Sherlock closer to orgasm, too.

“Oh, I know what you are trying to do,” Sherlock cocked his head to one side, looking down on John, before he started to move again, but much more slowly and with more control than before. 

To his surprise, John realised that he could handle his own arousal much better like this. Sherlock’s rhythm was stable and his own hand matched the movement of his hips. 

“This is perfect,” he whispered and Sherlock smiled widely, speeding up lightly. John hummed his agreement with the change in pace.

“John,” Sherlock started after a while, both breathless and a little bit shy, despite his position. 

“Yes?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“What?” His movement faltered as he tried to focus on Sherlock’s face.

“I’m proud of you. You said that a lot to me in that first week, and I never knew how to respond.”

John stared up at him, marvelling once more at how different Sherlock was from anybody he had ever met. 

“And I don’t know if there is a proper response,” he carefully touched John’s face. “But I just wanted you to know that I can’t remember ever feeling this proud of anyone. I mean, there are a lot of things I feel about you that I have never felt about anyone else but today you did something incredibly brave and I am very proud of you. And you don’t have to say anything, I just needed to tell you this before my brain stops working.”

“Your brain never stops working,” John argued, his voice thick with emotion. 

“I usually don’t talk in those moments so you don’t notice. But, the lobster fiasco was already an indication ...”

John laughed and pulled him down for a kiss, pushing at his hips to get him to move again and Sherlock happily obliged. He kept kissing him, even when both of them grew breathless and John’s fingers dug into Sherlock’s back, trying to hold on to something in order not to fall over the edge. 

“I’ll come,” Sherlock whispered against his lips just before John came inside of Sherlock and Sherlock spilled across his stomach, both of them holding on to each other tightly as not to float away. 

John felt absolutely boneless, lying on his back while Sherlock carefully pulled away and gently tucked the condom off John's softening cock, wiping his come off John’s stomach and himself. After a few minutes he got up to turn off the light, opening the mini-bar on his way back to the bed to produce a bottle of water. “Drink before you sleep.”

John barely managed and before Sherlock had joined him in bed, he was already fast asleep. 

He woke up in the middle of the night, feeling Sherlock’s lips move softly against his shoulder, but he was too tired to move, so he just sighed happily and slipped away again. 

When Sherlock’s alarm woke him, John felt his skin tingle. Sherlock was not holding him anymore, but his fingers were gently fluttering across his skin, making his breath hitch. “Oh, Sherlock,” he murmured, wanting to turn around, but not wanting Sherlock to stop. “Keep doing this, please,” he requested tiredly, pushing his face into his pillow, inhaling deeply. 

He could feel his body wake up, his senses growing more perceptive and his mind gaining clarity within a few minutes. He couldn’t remember ever taking note of this process before. Before Sherlock he had usually gotten up right away, still half asleep as he dragged himself into the bathroom. After Sherlock he had focused on him, if he had the privilege of waking up next to him. But this, this was nice. Very nice, indeed. 

“Have you slept at all?” he asked Sherlock once he felt his awe at the moment grow into something more solid. 

“I have. With interruptions, but I slept very well when I did.”

John turned his head and Sherlock let him turn around. “I suspect you’ll want the bathroom,” Sherlock smiled and only then John realised that he was right. 

“Oh, that is uncanny,” he said with a laugh when he rolled off the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Take your time. We have time. It’s still early. And I ordered breakfast.”

John smiled and stepped into the shower after having taken care of more urgent business, and when he walked into the bedroom a few minutes later he found that room service had brought up quite a large breakfast. 

“This is new,” John smiled, “you, taking care of feeding me properly.”

“Not feeding you. I'm just aware that we have a bit of a ride still ahead of us. And I ate most of our lunch yesterday because you were asleep and then you only ate a little we arrived here …”

John grinned and kissed him. “Feeding me,” he repeated happily. 

“You slept well,” Sherlock stated and John smiled at the fact that he wasn’t in the least surprised that it wasn’t a question.

“Is that why you didn’t sleep?”

“I slept. Just not … much.”

“Sherlock!” John shook his head. “You also need to sleep sometimes, you know?”

“We’ll be home soon. I sleep better in my own bed.”

“So you watched over me?”

“Not the entire time.”

“Yeah, I woke up once.”

“I also didn’t do … that … the entire time.”

“Okay, fine. You slept a little. I’m driving anyway.”

Sherlock smiled, obviously not feeling guilty at all about being called out by John. “I had to think and I wanted to make sure that you would not have a delayed panic attack.”

John kissed him again before he settled down on the bed, picking up a mug of coffee. “You can sleep in the car. I did that yesterday, so today you get to relax.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said formally before he began picking through the food. Between them, they managed to eat the entire serving and for another fifteen minutes they sat next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, in companionable silence, nursing their coffees.

“Should we head out?”

“The ferry leaves in an hour. The hotel got us a ticket.”

“That’s brilliant, thank you!” John plucked some clothes from his bag and quickly brushed his teeth, getting dressed in the bathroom for fear of making them late if he did it in front of Sherlock. 

“We’ll have three hours on the ferry,” Sherlock grinned, stepping behind John to kiss the nape of his neck.

“We are not getting arrested for indecent behaviour on a ship.”

Sherlock huffed and reached for his own toothbrush. “I’ll text Lestrade that we’ll be at work a little later than planned. With no traffic we can be in Woking by 4 if we stop by in Baker Street. But if we see your sister, who knows?”

John nodded, hoping that Lestrade would be lenient once again. He knew that today was their last chance to alter their schedule. From tomorrow, it would be back to work on a fixed schedule, and both he and Sherlock would start a proper work-out regime. And things would be normal, well, as normal as they could be with the not so lonely genius in his office next to him. 

They reached the ferry on time and once they had locked the car they went to explore the ship. It turned out that quite a few people recognised Sherlock, some of them travelling back to England from Hockenheim as well, so that they were mostly trying to escape attention. After an hour of playing hide and seek, Sherlock told John that he wanted to split up, making sure that nobody would read anything into their being on the ferry with each other, but John refused.

“I have a better idea.” He got them both tea and then asked whether they could join an elderly French-speaking couple at their table. Neither of them cared much for them and when John began to quietly talk about changes he would try to implement on the car, he found that neither of them were interested in their conversation. Sherlock, however, immediately caught on and within minutes they were properly planning further steps. 

The announcement for the passengers to return to their cars came all too soon, and when they left the ferry at Dover they continued their conversation with John thinking out loud while Sherlock took notes and occasionally commented and modified John’s ideas. 

They were still in deep conversation when they entered the outskirts of London and Sherlock looked up from his notes in irritation when John stopped the car. 

“Why are you stopping? This isn’t Woking. Nor Baker Street.”

“Obviously,” John added, watching annoyance cross Sherlock’s features before he realised John was making fun of him. “Where are we?”

“Harry’s.”

“Oh, right.” Sherlock closed the notebook and pushed his hands into his hair, trying to make it look less messy but making it only worse.

“You’re gorgeous. Don’t worry.”

“Did you call ahead?”

“I texted her,” John shrugged.

“Did she answer?”

“With a _K_.”

Sherlock blew out his breath nervously and John pulled him in for a kiss. “You can stay here if you want to.”

“No, absolutely not. I’m not letting you do this on your own.”

“I love you,” John said quietly and kissed him again. “Right,” he cleared his throat after he had pulled away and got out of the car. 

His sister already stood in the door when they walked up to it. She was holding a mug and John dearly hoped that she was drinking tea and nothing stronger.

“Hello.”

“Long time no see.”

“You didn’t watch the race?” John asked, testing the waters. Harry didn’t answer and instead walked back inside, making room for them to follow her. 

“I’m Harriet,” she introduced herself, looking Sherlock up and down. “And you must be?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The … driver?”

“Yes. Quite.” 

“Can I get you something?” 

Sherlock shook his head but John nodded. “What you’re having.”

Harry’s eyes bored into his, but eventually she shrugged. “Fine. Tea then. Still no sugar, just cream?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock frowned at him and John inhaled deeply, trying to calm down. He was so used to look for jibes in his sister’s words that he had forgotten that she could be literal sometimes. 

Harriet’s grin when she returned told him that he had been right in reading between the lines. In a way, he was glad that she offered him a chance to start that conversation. 

“Do you still have my old photo album? The one from when we were young. I know you took if after mum died.”

“Umm, yes, why?”

“Can I take it with me?”

“Well, it is yours, but I thought you did not want to have any of your …”

“I have a new place to live now. More shelf space.”

Harry looked hard at her brother and handed him a mug of steaming tea. “Does he have anything to do with this?”

Sherlock stood very still and silent as if he hoped that he would be ignored as long as he didn’t draw attention to himself. John smiled. “Yes. Actually, he does. It’s his place. I’m moving, well, I actually already have half moved in.”

“We’re getting married in December,” Sherlock suddenly said, sounding like he wanted to help John but realising that he could potentially be doing the opposite. John bit his lip at his sister’s wide-eyed expression. He knew she had been ready to mock him when he spoke, but Sherlock’s announcement almost physically pushed her back from any stinging remark she might have wanted to make. 

“You’re engaged?”

“Yes,” John walked over to Sherlock, taking his hand, more to steady himself than anything else. Sherlock’s thumb stroked across the back of his hand. “I’m going to marry him.”

Harry continued to stare at them for a long moment before he drew a deep breath. “Why haven’t we been introduced earlier, then? I know we’re not model siblings but I would have expected to at least know about someone that serious. I mean, after all this time and all those relationships you went through …”

John felt himself grow angry. He did not need his sister to talk about his past lovers. If Sherlock wanted to know, he would tell him, but he did not appreciate her bringing his past relationships up now. 

“John wanted to be sure,” Sherlock said, sounding softer than John had ever heard him speak to anyone that wasn’t him. John was eternally grateful or the white lie. 

“Is he good to you?” she asked John, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. 

John nodded, angry at how small he felt under his sister’s eyes. “Very.”

“Don’t you go and break my brother’s heart, you hear me?” She squinted at Sherlock in an attempt to appear threatening and for the first time in years John felt his anger slip away in favour of love for his sister. 

“He’s done quite the opposite,” John explained timidly. 

“Still, he better not do anything to hurt you.”

“Harry!” John shook his head at her and she let it go. 

“Fine,” she put her cup down on the window sill next to her and got down on her knees in front of a book shelf, tugging out the photo album. Sherlock looked at John and smiled and John felt relieved. Sherlock didn’t hate her. He wondered why that particular notion seemed important to him. 

Harry cleared her throat and handed over the album. “I guess you won’t stay?”

“We’ve work,” John explained, finishing his tea. 

“Right. I hope it’s the one you were looking for. Haven’t looked at it in years.” She seemed strangely reluctant to let it go. 

“Thank you, Harry.” John wanted to apologise for not being in touch more often, but he knew that things were better when they did not see each other more often than necessary. “Are you doing alright?”

“Fourteen months sober,” she said with a half smile and John pressed the photo album into Sherlock’s hands and stepped forward, drawing her into a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” she smiled and gently pushed him away. “Things are better. For you, too, it seems, and I’m happy for you.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Harry, for the tea, and the album.”

“No problem at all.” She ushered them to the door and gave Sherlock another warning look before she opened it. 

“Good bye, Harriet,” Sherlock said with a half-smile that mirrored hers and shook her hand.

“Harry,” she said with a small frown and Sherlock smirked. John wanted to kiss him. He knew, after all, what it meant to rile up a sibling whom he loved and despised at the same time. 

“Bye, Harry,” he waved at her awkwardly before they both left the building and climbed into the car again. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Sherlock stroked his hands across the binding of the photo album before he opened it. John, however, pushed it closed it again and instead drew him close for a kiss. 

“Thank you for being nice to her.”

“She didn’t even keep a file of me,” Sherlock joked and John laughed against his lips. 

“Let’s go home?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment and John knew he wanted to say something, but he held himself back. “What?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

John kissed him again before he started the car. 

“Fourteen months ago,” Sherlock said after a moment of silence. “That’s when your accident happened, isn’t it?”

John swallowed hard and nodded. “I guess it scared her enough. Losing all your family, no matter how little you like it, isn’t something anybody should experience.”

“Is that what you told her?”

John nodded. “I wasn’t properly conscious, I believe, but she said it’s what I said after I woke up in hospital. I guess she did realise that her drinking was just as dangerous as my accident had been. I wasn’t sure whether she’d stay off the booze, though.”

Sherlock reached out and gently ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of John’s neck. “Maybe we could invite her over for dinner sometime,” he mused and John gently squeezed his knee, hoping he could learn some patience where siblings were concerned from Sherlock. “Yeah, maybe.”

Traffic delayed their progress and John wondered whether Sherlock was getting tired. If they wanted to drive down to Woking for the press conference, he would only have about an hour to rest before they needed to leave again. Well, rest or sex. John bit his lip, hoping dearly that for some strange reason, Sherlock might not be tired after all. 

“I’ll sleep tonight,” Sherlock said after a while, making John gape at him. 

“How did you …?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Unbelievable,” John grinned as he pulled into Baker Street and parked the car right in front of the house. “Bless whoever did not park here,” John smiled and leaned over to kiss Sherlock. “Welcome home, champion.”

“Not quite,” Sherlock smiled and kissed him back. Both of them were aware that these car kisses were potentially dangerous, but neither of them were strong enough to resist. 

Eventually John tore himself away and got out of the car, opening the trunk to start unpacking when Sherlock stepped next to him, helping him with his bag. John was already at the door when Sherlock called his name and he turned around. “Come back here,” he said, sounding nervous. 

“What is it?”

“The second part of the surprise,” Sherlock scratched his neck nervously, his eyes flicking to the café next door. “I’ve been working on this for a while.”

John slowly walked back and then turned around, his mouth falling open. The awning which had previously read _Speedy’s - Sandwich Bar & Café_ now read _Speedy’s - Racing Consulting Services Watson & Holmes_. 

“What did you do?” John asked, leaning back against his car to support his legs. “Did you buy the shop? Is that what you meant when you said your prize money was already well invested?”

“It’s still a café, but there is a garage at the back of the house and you’ll be able to work on James’s car during the winter as you promised him. And I can offer consulting services when I am not in Woking. Mrs Hudson offered to be the receptionist and manager. Said she wanted to feel useful again.”

For a long while John let it all sink in. Sherlock wanted him, he really, truly wanted him in his life and he hadn’t thought of asking him to marry him, but he had bought a café and put both of their names on it and that was, in John’s book, almost better. 

“What about the photo?” he finally asked when he found his voice again. “From the file?”

Sherlock smiled. “So you are alright with this? It’s not too much?”

John blew out his breath sharply. “I am aware that this is really rather unusual and all, but hell, yes, I am alright with this!” He walked around the car to draw Sherlock into a fierce hug before he grabbed his bag again and unlocked the front door, feeling both overwhelmed and entirely at peace with the world. 

He quickly took the stairs and opened the door to the flat, turning around himself once before carrying the bag into the bedroom. “Oh.”

Sherlock appeared in the door behind him, a blush gracing his cheeks. “That happened to the photo,” he explained unnecessarily and bit his lip when John beamed at him. The poster of the T-Model motor above Sherlock’s bed had been exchanged with a large print of a photo of them hugging after Sherlock’s win in Silverstone. 

John stepped closer to it, taking in the details of it, the connection they clearly shared in that moment, their eyes fixed on each other, their bodies almost one, John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock’s hand on his arse, holding him up. “Fuck,” John said quietly. “Now I do see why nobody was surprised.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Welcome home, John,” he said, his voice a tiny bit rough. 

John turned around and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Thank you. For everything. All of this. I love you. Thank you.”

Sherlock hugged him tightly. “Thank you for staying.”

John smiled widely and pulled away so he could look at him, his hands coming to rest against Sherlock’s cheeks. “I told you I would.”

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock bit his lip and then kissed him, hard and long and passionate enough to make John forget that they would have to leave for Woking within the hour as he pulled him down onto the bed and on top of him. They kissed for the better part of that hour and both of them were half undressed and ready to take things further when John’s phone rang. 

He sighed and scrambled for it on the bed where it had dropped out of his pocket once they had started kissing. He cleared his throat while trying to push Sherlock’s face away from his chest where he was currently about to attach his lips to a nipple. “Lestrade, hi.”

“Where are you? 

“Home, why?”

“Oh, you know, just wondering where our best driver and the lead mechanic have ended up after disappearing off the grid for two days.”

“Ah, we just got in.”

“Can we expect you in Woking anytime soon?”

“Almost …” John bit his lip and swallowed down a moan when Sherlock succeeded in getting to his nipple. “Almost on our way again.”

“So his surprise went over well, did it?” Lestrade seemed amused and John realised that he probably knew exactly what they were doing. He pushed Sherlock away and rolled off the bed, glaring at Sherlock’s disappointed pout. 

“Which one?” John asked, turning away from Sherlock to be able to focus. His hair was a mess, his lips were red from kissing him and he looked exactly like John would expect someone to look after an intense make-out session. White heat settled in John's stomach.

“The driving, of course.”

“Ah, yes, that was a surprise.”

“How did it go?”

“Quite … well, yes, quite well. I did not die or crash or even … no, I enjoyed it. Very much so.”

“Good, glad to hear it.”

“So you knew?”

“Well, someone had to reserve the track for some previously unplanned testing,” Lestrade grinned. 

“Is that why you are calling or are you reminding us that we are terribly late to come into work.”

Lestrade chuckled. “We’ve done most of the interviews today, and the press have already left the premises. You can stay in if you want to, but we do expect you to be at work at 9 am sharp tomorrow. There is a lot of paperwork to sort out and Sherlock needs to be presentable, so please refrain from any … well, you know.”

“We’re engaged,” John suddenly blurted out, watching as Sherlock sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“Umm, wow, alright. That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”

“You’re supposed to say congratulations and all that,” John grinned. “And we’re aware, thank you.”

“Well, congratulations and all that, then. I’m just a little surprised.”

“Don’t tell his brother, will you? I think Sherlock wants to do that, eventually.”

“You two will be the death of me.”

“If you need us to look at any paperwork, please send it over?”

“Are you asking me to give you work?”

“We already took more than a day off without …”

“John Watson, I just gave you the afternoon off. Do not even think about working. I need your head in the game when you return to work, so whatever you need to do to make sure that tomorrow morning you and your … fiancé will show up for work fully prepared and focused, please do it?” There was a short pause. “Good god, Sherlock Holmes is getting married. Who would have ever believed that something like that was possible. John, you are a miracle worker. Or insane. I’m not sure.”

“A little bit of both, maybe?” John grinned. “And thank you! And yes, we’ll be all that.”

“Good, now put him on, will you?”

John handed the phone over and smiled at Sherlock’s fondly annoyed expression as Lestrade doubtlessly berated him for something entirely unimportant just because he could.

“Yes, don’t worry. You’ll have him back in one piece tomorrow,” he finally answered smugly. “But, as John said, you can send over anything you want us to work on. We already discussed a few options on the way here and I think we are definitely going to …” he rolled his eyes as he was doubtlessly interrupted, but then he focused on John, looking surprised. Then the surprise became a smile and eventually he climbed off the bed and came to stand in front of John. “I have to go,” Sherlock said and hung up, even though John had still heard Lestrade speaking. 

Sherlock carefully placed John’s phone on the window sill before he pulled him into a tight embrace. “Did you sign Molly’s exhaust pipe?”

John stilled in surprise. He had completely forgotten about it. “I did,” he nodded and then chuckled when Sherlock’s hands settled on his arse. “Does that turn you on?”

“A little bit,” he admitted, kissing his neck. “Driving a car with your name secretly etched into it? Yeah.”

John laughed and pushed Sherlock towards the bed. “Now, where were we?”

They took their time, now that it had been granted freely, and for a long while they continued to kiss and to hold each other, breathing in each other’s scent and lying still, listening to the other man’s heart-beat. Eventually they brought each other to orgasm, but it seemed almost unimportant as both were already drunk on each other. 

Afterwards they continued just as they had started and the sun had set before they showered and got dressed and decided on taking Mrs Hudson out for dinner to celebrate their engagement and their new side-project in the café downstairs. 

It was midnight when they returned to the flat and John dropped down on the couch, trying to hold on to the feeling of total bliss. Sherlock sat down two mugs of tea on the coffee table and sat down next to John, reaching for the photo album. “May I?”

John smiled. “Of course.” He leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock moved closer and wrapped his arm around John, pressing him against his chest and kissing the top of his head. 

He opened the album and chuckled at the blond blue-eyed baby that stared out at them from the first photo. Almost every photo got the same reaction and John poked him in the side. “Why are you so amused?”

“Because you already look so much like yourself,” Sherlock explained. “Look at your eyes. You are always awake, in every single picture.”

“I do sleep a lot these days,” John chuckled. “At least since I have you around to wear me out.”

“Ah, that’s not what I mean,” Sherlock gently ruffled his hair and John pressed his cheek harder against Sherlock’s chest. 

They had reached John’s school days and Sherlock’s hand came to rest on a year book photo, blown up for the family, showing his slightly too long hair not quite tamed by a comb, a smudge of dirt on his neck, and a cocky half-smile that was simultaneously annoyed. John remembered being embarrassed about the photo afterwards. He looked straight into the camera as if to escape wherever he was.

They had played football in the yard despite strict orders to not mess around before their pictures were taken and his friends had mocked him from the side lines. The photo reminded John that Sherlock knew nothing about him as a child. 

“That’s what I mean,” Sherlock said at length. “That’s exactly how you looked at me when we first met.”

“I did?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. The day everything changed.”

John bit his lip and pushed the photo album off Sherlock’s lap, turning so could lie lay in it instead. “It really did, didn’t it?”

“And you were right,” Sherlock slowly ran his fingers through John’s hair. “Gentle isn’t so bad.”

For a moment John wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but then he remembered. Sherlock had flirted at him on the very first day and the innuendo had made him uncomfortable in ways he had been unwilling to explore more closely then, but now that he knew, he felt both embarrassed and amused by it. He also marvelled at Sherlock’s precise memory of everything they had said. 

“Have I tamed the great Sherlock Holmes?” he mocked him from below, reaching out to touch his face. 

“Educated, rather.” Sherlock straightened his back as if to somehow show that he was not embarrassed by his admission. 

“As I said last night, you’re a good student,” he smiled and pulled him down into a kiss. “The education of Sherlock Holmes in matters of the heart and the body.”

“A new bestselling novel, coming soon to a book store near you.”

“Or a Victorian-themed sex tape,” John giggled. 

Sherlock laughed and ran his hand along John’s flank before changing course and coming to rest against his flies.

“Take me to bed?” John asked, lifting his hips to meet Sherlock’s hand. 

“So I can take you apart gently?” Sherlock asked amused. 

“Nah. I owe you a couple of scratch marks,” John grinned and pulled himself up. Then he took Sherlock’s hand and led him to the bedroom. “And a couple of childhood stories.”


	102. Ebook (pdf) and print version info

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a new chapter - though there is an epilogue. I just won't post it here, but it will be exclusive to the print and digital editions of Red Lights Out. You can find more into in the post below.

I have finally managed to edit and format _Red Lights Out_ for publication. [You can either buy it here](http://www.lulu.com/shop/days-of-storm/red-lights-out/paperback/product-23330075.html) (you'll probs have to fill in your birth-date to see the book page since it's listed as 18+; also: I am making zero profit off this; the cost is 100% for printing) or [download the pdf version here](https://www.mediafire.com/file/b3os1m7e1ljoxfs/Red%20Lights%20Out%20digital%20edition.pdf). I am trying to get an epub/kindle version out as well, but that might take some more time.

I want to thank Megabat/Fruitbat for her lovely (NSFW) cover art.

I know it's kinda obvious, but the book is HUGE. I barely managed to fit it onto the maximum of 740 pages (I chose Lulu.com because they are the only publisher that allows that many pages). The ebook is formatted slightly differently, so there are more pages to that.

In any case - thank you for your patience and your support. xx


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